A Thousand Years of Darkness
by vanhunks
Summary: **EPILOGUE** "The Killing Game" Katrine/Miller novel. Set exclusively in the WWII holodeck setting of "The Killing Game". The paths of Katrine du Pléssis and Captain Charles Anson Miller cross, diverge, then cross again. [Kathryn, Chakotay, Torres, Paris, Tuvok characters.] Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

INTRODUCTION

A THOUSAND YEARS OF DARKNESS

The Star Trek Voyager two part episode of "The Killing Game" aired on March 4 1998 in the United States. Readers are reminded that the story is an über story as it focuses exclusively on the WWII setting of the two part episode. There is therefore no Voyager, no Hirogen or Kathryn and Chakotay.

This story was started in July of 2001. Kathryn Janeway is **Katrine du Pléssis** and Chakotay is **Captain Charles Anson Miller**. In the story Captain Miller is "Charles" or "Charlie" depending on who addresses him. Katrine, however, being French, always calls him " _Charles_ " [pronounced " _Sharl_ "]

Since I had not seen the episode at the time, I read as much as I could from online sources, reviews, episode retellings, that sort of thing.

Even then I was intrigued by the World War II scenario into which the Voyager crew had been plunged. Nothing, not the Klingon battles or the crew's battle to outwit the Hirogen captured my imagination more than **St. Clair** , the town depicted in the WWII setting of Occupied France.

I began to read as many fanfiction stories as I could around this theme, and in this year all those new "Killing Game" fics as well. Almost all of them featured both elements - that of the holodeck simulation and Voyager's crew struggling to outwit the Hirogen. So for instance, Kathryn Janeway was Katrine in the WWII simulation and Chakotay Captain Miller. The question many fanfiction writers posed and answered was this: Would Kathryn and Chakotay have memories of being Katrine and Captain Miller? So, for that matter, would Tuvok, Seven, B'Elanna Torres and Tom Paris have residual memories of their holodeck characters? Would some of the idiosyncrasies of their Voyager characters be perceptible in their holodeck personas?

My primary obsession was the WWII setting, and being so interested in history, I asked myself this question: What if I wrote a story about Katrine and Captain Miller as an über story, i.e. a story set exclusively in the universe of Occupied France? Remember, at that time I had not watched the episodes. It was between 2000 and 2001 that I decided to write a story with these two characters as my main protagonists and have the story peopled by a host of secondary characters. I created little back stories for most of them.

I have been wanting to write the story for so long, but between 2001 and 2015 so many things happened, it became simply a lost thought to resurface at the oddest times. Finally now that I have retired, I had the time to devote to this project, started in 2001 and continued in 2015, fourteen years later.

The title came from Jim Wright's review of the Star Trek Voyager season 4 two-parter "The Killing Game".

 _"...because the task of fighting the Third Reich was far more desperate than the plight of a single ship and crew struggling merely to stay alive. In short: In WWII, they weren't just fighting for their lives. They were fighting for Humanity. Good vs. Evil. Freedom, or_ _a thousand years of darkness_ _under a blood-red flag."_

I wrote Jim at the time asking his permission to use the phrase as a title for my story and was pleased when he agreed! This phrase jumped at me. One of the holodeck characters as a German SS officer makes an impassioned plea for the Reich, and speaks of "a way of life that hasn't changed for a thousand years."

It was only in late 2002 that I watched the two-parter for the first time. I had already written three chapters of the story, all of them random, to fit in wherever I needed to place them within the detailed outline as soon as I started the story in earnest. So much more became clear to me watching the episode, yet I felt I was on the right track.

The research had started in 2000. I'd like to reflect here on the ongoing research done for this story. If this novel does not meet the reader's expectations, then I'll say it was worth writing every single word of it for the sheer amount of knowledge I've accrued through the research alone. Everything, from a bicycle wheel to the scope on an infantryman's rifle was researched. I visited the Cape Town Holocaust centre twice. The second time was only recently. I was allowed to take pictures and could not stop weeping as I looked at photographs, especially of Buchenwald, the concentration camp that features in my story.

One of the [major] inconsistencies in the episode occurs when Katrine reads the message from Allied High Command. She says the 4th Infantry Division would advance to St. Clair. When Captain Miller arrives, he introduces himself as "5th Armoured Infantry". I went with the latter, as the 5th Infantry Division [Mechanised] or the Red Diamonds as they were called, did indeed liberate French towns. This division had an illustrious record during WWII, as they later formed part of Gen. Patton's Third Army.

The liberation of the major towns in France occurred during June - August of 1944. This date has become my mid-point. If I had to create a backstory for my characters, where could I begin? My automatic choice for the prologue chapter was eight years prior, Germany of 1936, the year of the Summer Olympics held in Berlin.

Some thoughts on the research and starting points in the story: When I decided that the Summer Olympics of 1936 Berlin would form the prologue by which I introduced a number of characters, I looked for events in which United States, France and Germany obtained gold.

The most interesting aspect of this selection of events was the United States, because I was looking for an event that would fit Charles Miller with regard to leadership, discipline and focus. I found an event, the coxed eights rowing competition. And guess where I placed Charles? As the coxswain of the US team, their shell [boat] under his guidance. Then I looked at the history of US rowing eights, and the [US] team that won the gold medal [Germany won all other events on the rowing calendar] was the team of the University of Washington. To read up on "The boys in the boat" was my greatest discovery and pleasure. I read the book by Daniel James Brown about the nine students of UW [Udub] and their great victory against all the odds. A film is currently in production.

I have used most of the non-fiction events and details of World War II and placed them in a fictional setting. Most of what the reader will experience here, are events that actually occurred during WWII. The events in "A Thousand Years of Darkness" span roughly ten years.

Some of the scenes described in the story required maps of the region or town, which was a good tool for me to use when it came to knowing where I was at any given point, especially the town of St. Clair and the wine estate of a prominent French family.

The inspiration for many of the scenes of the story came from a host of sources. For the war scenes, I was inspired by the films "Saving Private Ryan", "Inglourious Basterds", "Gallipoli", "The Great Dictator", "Monuments Men", "Casablanca" were but a few of the many war films I've watched. There were books, photographs, paintings, the oddest impulse that have inspired the writing of particular scenes.

Writing "A Thousand Years of Darkness" has had me filled with joy most of the time, but also tears when it came to writing certain scenes, even certain paragraphs.

Acknowledgements and individual chapter information will appear in the end notes of the story.

NOW ON TO CHAPTER ONE...


	2. Chapter 2

A THOUSAND YEARS OF DARKNESS

a novel

A novel based on the WWII holodeck setting of the episode "The Killing Game" of the television series Star Trek Voyager.

SYNOPSIS

The paths of Katrine du Pléssis and Captain Charles Anson Miller cross, diverge, then cross again. Their lives are traced from events in 1936 and span almost ten years. When they meet in July of 1944, they will each have known and experienced suffering, yet when Captain Miller leaves, they will have touched each others' lives and those of others in a manner that remains as enduring as the eternal flame of friendship and love and loyalty, and they will realise that out of the ashes can be born again, a new life.

A THOUSAND YEARS OF DARKNESS

 _For over a thousand years, Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of a triumph - a tumultuous parade. In the procession came trumpeters and musicians and strange animals from the conquered territories, together with carts laden with treasure and captured armaments. The conqueror rode in a triumphal chariot, the dazed prisoners walking in chains before him. Sometimes his children, robed in white, stood with him in the chariot, or rode the trace horses. A slave stood behind the conqueror, holding a golden crown, and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory is fleeting._

 _Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. [Patton]_

CHAPTER ONE

GERMANY: BERLIN, 1 - 16 August 1936

The new Olympic stadium was filled to capacity despite the late season humidity which did not deter the thousands of spectators who had come to watch the opening ceremony of the XI Olympics Games. Seating 100 000 the oval shaped stadium reminded them of the great circuses of Rome, with the exterior colonnades giving the stadium a mix of ancient architectural grandeur and modern technological advancement.

In the mighty Colosseum of Ancient Rome, thousands had come to watch the spectacle of torture and death, as prisoners - Christians and slaves - met their end. Gladiators contesting a duel to the death would stand on the dusty ground at a point where they could see the great Emperor, raise their hands and exclaim: _Ave Caesar. We who are about to die, salute you._

Much of that had changed. The spectacle of slaves, gladiators and Christians meeting their final moments before a crowd hungry for bloodcurdling screams and blood-soaked bodies had made way for a different kind of honour and glory.

The Olympic Games was now fought in the spirit of great sportsmanship where speed, power, grace, strength, determination, courage, pride and national allegiance were the bases of competition. An ailing Baron de Coubertin's voice over the loudspeakers - his voice had been recorded on a phonograph record - sounded strange, yet impassioned.

 _"The important thing at the Olympic Games is not to win, but to take part, just as the most important thing about life is not to conquer, but to struggle well."_

Nothing compared to the singular honour of standing on the winner's podium, the nation's flag flapping while the orchestra played the national anthem. Some would be remembered for many years, and for many different reasons. Others would sink into the oblivion of lost memories and ignominy.

Now the grand march past of athletes and officials had begun, first Greece followed by Aegypten leading the procession. The flag bearer of each team dipped his flag as his team passed the group of honoured dignitaries in the main stand. The King of Bulgaria, the President of the International Olympic Committee, as well as the man who had won the first modern Olympic Marathon in Greece, Spyridon Louis were among the dignitaries. One man's presence though, was as commanding as his voice, to whom the 100000 spectators looked eagerly for a reaction.

He was _der Führer._

There was a gasp, then great applause as the French team passed. They acknowledged the Führer and remembered the Franco-Prussian War.

Some said the French gave a "Heil" salute, while the French athletes maintained it was the Olympic salute, which then appeared remarkably similar.

When the team of the _Vereinigten Staaten_ had to pass, Alfred Joachem, flag bearer, seven-time winner of the American all-round gymnastics championship, held the American flag proudly upright as they passed the Tribune of Honour with an "eyes right" salute. Another gasp. He did not dip the flag like the Bulgarians or the Italians or the Belgians so that its point trailed in the red cinder of the track! The crowd turned their eyes to the Führer. What would he say? How would he look? Did the Americans slight him?

Der Führer had little time to ponder on the "slight". Earlier the team of Grossbritanien had caused a slight stir too as they honoured the Führer with an "eyes right" salute.

But at that moment, the host nation's team entered the stadium through the Marathon Gate. Immediately the orchestra, conducted by Richard Strauss, launched into the first passionate strains of "Deutschland über alles". To tumultuous applause, the audience rose to its feet in an instinctive mass action and engaged the "Heil Hitler" salute. They remained that way until the last strains of the anthem trailed away.

 _Ave Caesar. We who are about to die, salute you._

 **Day 5: Rowing - The Coxed Eight competition.**

The water course at Grunau gleamed in the sun that had broken for a few precious minutes through the tenacious cloud cover. All along the left bank terraced stands had been built to accommodate the thousands of enthusiastic spectators who had come to cheer their teams. The predominantly and

passionately patriotic German crowd had been there since early morning when the first of the German teams and singles had rowed to victory. Joyously adorned with medals around their necks and laurel wreaths on their heads, young men had strutted around proudly, showing off their spoils and being photographed by foreign journalists.

Unbeaten in the coxed eights since 1920 and the Olympic champions of the Los Angeles Games, the United States had a lot more than just their laurels to prove on the Grunau water course. The rowing team of the University of Washington had come to the Games with an impressive record and reputation. They had beaten the best on American soil, taken the heart out of the University of Michigan Team's effort at the All-American Championships in March and were ready to take on the rest of the world. Their canary yellow eight oared shell, long and sleek, glided noiselessly to the start line. The U.S. team was flanked on the left by Germany and on their right by Great Britain. Next to Great Britain were the Italians. They, too, had come to the Games with a solid record, having won the European Championships the previous year.

Charles Anson Miller, coxswain of his rowing team for the third year straight, had known from the start that the German rowers were going to be very hard to beat. They were aggressive, fiercely disciplined and determined with only one goal: victory. Germany had already taken gold in the coxed fours, coxless fours, the coxed and coxless pairs.

The coxed eights was the prestigious event on the rowing calendar and the Americans had prepared in a rigorous two week long training camp on the Heron Lagoon Lake back home. Charlie's heart sank. All their efforts to be in peak condition paled when he looked at the well appointed Germans who oozed health and fitness. His strokeman's head peeped just above Danny Gilberti who sat behind him. Charlie depended on him to maintain their stroke rate, and keep it consistent over two thousand metres. Rick needed the rousing warm-up to get him to stroke at his best.

"Let the victory be ours, guys!" Charlie encouraged. "Don't think defeat. We are men of daring, willing to take on the impossible and making it possible. We are ready. We can beat them. Believe it! Believe it!"

"Aye, Captain!" Canning on the starboard rigged oar shouted, hoisting himself to look over the heads of Dirk Prentiss and Sloane Whitmore. He grinned sheepishly. "Right, Charlie?"

At university they had called him captain since he'd coxed the team in their first year. He had protested at first, but the title stuck. He still had to join the army…

"Are we gonna do it, guys?" Charlie's jet black hair glistened in the sun, and his tanned skin was already sprayed when oars hit the water. "Well, are you?" he snapped again.

"Aye!" they chorused.

Dirk Prentiss had look of consternation on his face as he stared at the Germans. "Charlie, we're dead in the water, man…"

"You have so little faith that we'll make it, Prentiss? You need a kick in the rear, man!"

"Just look at them!" Prentiss left his oar in the feathered position as he waved it. The shell rocked suddenly.

"Hey, watch it, will ya!" shouted Angelo Andreae.

"They've got muscle tone like you've never seen. And those oars! I swear to God they're made of shark fins! We're dead in the water, man."

"Come on, Prentiss," Sloane Whitmore rejoined in his placid tones, "we've done our homework. They might have the lighter oars, but they can be beaten."

"That's the way to talk! Talk like Prentiss and we lose before we've even started the race."

"Hey, Dirk, they're only rowers just like us," Sloane taunted. Dirk shrugged. He could pull an oar when the team depended on him, but he always feared the opposition.

"But look at them!"

"Yeah? So what? Don't let them get to you!"

" _Achtung! Achtung_!"

"Oh, Jeez…"

"Let's show them, boys!"

As auspiciously as the start of the preceding races, the coxed eights was underway. Charlie called and steered the boat as the oar blades dipped for the first catch and entry, cutting the water at an angle. All eight boats were even after the first full stroke. Charlie peered for a second in the distance. The buoy at the 500m mark could be clearly seen and they had to be at least in the top three by then. The Germans took an early lead, already a deck length ahead of the Italians who rowed strongly for second position. Charlie's eyes popped as he caught the rowing action of the German team. They surged two, three metres ahead with every full stroke action.

He coaxed his own men, their faces contorting as they grunted and heaved, upper bodies firm to maximise the smoothness of their movement. Charlie's metronome-like calling and steering, making only the smallest adjustment, kept the shell straight. No one wasted energy as the oars cleaved the water.

"Put power in the oars!" he yelled above the din of the crowd whose euphoria boiled over into a cacophonic frenzy as the German team widened the gap between them. Charlie's boys managed to keep up, only half a length behind Italy, and by the time they passed the 500m mark, they had left the rest of the field literally in their wake.

But the American team hadn't put in hours of endurance rowing on Heron Lagoon for nothing. Charlie knew they could do it. The Germans had the strength, but his team had explosive power and endurance. His men wouldn't tire; they would never give up. Then Charlie started singing, despite Coach's advice that the rhythm slowed them down.

 _"The Mississippi river is a long, long way,_

 _we rowing down the river been forever and a day,_

 _who says it is impossible to have a winning streak,_

 _when we've been all out training without taking a leak!"_

It worked! Quickly they found an edge, the Washington team's muscles straining, streamlining in painful, accurate formation as their oar blades cut the water and stroked with keen regular movement, arms bent, oars entering the water, pushing forward, then exiting again. At the halfway mark they drew abreast with Italy, still lying in second place behind the crack German eight who were going hell for leather, rushing towards the finish.

Charlie Miller's ears started buzzing. Heart pumping, he spurred his team, knowing his engine room to be the toughest, strongest men in the team.

"Now! Push! Power in the oars!" he shouted. Eight glistening torsos strained and pushed, eight voices joined in their old university rowing song. He stole a glance at the Italians.

"C'mon!"

They pulled ahead of the Italians whose coxswain began to drift behind. With each stroke they edged further and further away. They gained half a length on the Italians, who managed to cling to them, refusing to let the Washington rowers get away. But Charlie's insistent yet rhythmic calling kept the Americans gaining inch by painful inch. They'd stopped their singing, finding the rhythm in their hearts as national pride impelled them forward.

There was no time to celebrate a victory not yet gained, but Charlie's eye caught the Germans on his left. He was aware of them, but they were a full length ahead while his team were concentrating on leaving the Italians in their wake. The battle was only just beginning, with the Italians still holding on as they appeared to reel in the Germans.

If their coxswain were abreast with Dirk Prentiss, that meant…

"Let's go! Now! Now! Now!" he yelled at his men.

"Aye, Captain!" they chorused.

They shot forward and pulled up next to the German team. It wasn't enough, Charlie knew. Finish lines on a water course were deceptive. The Italians might still be in the lead! But his strokeman, Rick Watson, made certain his team had superb cadence as the spacing between each completed stroke widened. They were going faster! Only a photo-finish would determine the winners.

All the time the crowd continued to scream "Deutschland! Deutschland! Deutschland!"

Charlie ignored the thunderous noise until it seemed to come only from a long way off, vaguely aware of waving flags and screaming. They had drawn alongside the Germans.

"Now!" he yelled.

He could feel it, close his eyes and imagine the invisible tape just twenty metres away. Next to him he saw the blue and white of the Italians. They were attacking his team from both flanks.

"God, let's do it!"

Charlie Miller rowed his team as if they were one man rowing. Gracefully their shell complied to their ministrations, a slinking wake of silvery water trailing as the US team streaked past the finish, then slowed down. They had edged out the German team by a narrow margin.

There was a collective sigh from the eight students as they dropped their oars, oarlocks preventing the oars from slipping into the water. The strain left Charlie's face at last, the dimples forming as his face broke into a smile. "Thanks, guys - " he started, but in the next moment, he was pitched from his seat and felt himself unable to retain his balance.

"Hey, wha -?'!"

He tumbled head first into the water.

"We won, Captain!"

He didn't hear their ecstatic shouts and whoops of joy as he went under and when he came up sputtering, he saw them pumping the air. The moment was upon him as he joined them raising his arms, going under again as he forgot to tread water. They hauled him back in. When he recovered sufficiently, the other competitors had drawn up next to them. The German rowers were unsmiling, sombre, their blonde hair plastered to their heads. They all looked like some prototype, thought Charlie. Copies of one. Their coxswain leaned over to take his hand and Charlie reached forward and shook hands with him. Jet black hair contrasted with bright blonde hair. The German coxswain looked grim, and when he opened his mouth…

" _Ich werde sicherstellen, dass wir nicht wieder verlieren_."

"Huh?"

"I think he means we've done well," Dirk Prentiss offered.

"Ve…vill not…lose…again," the German struggled through the English in a heavy accent.

Charlie nodded. "Thank you."

He looked around him, saw a small group of people bravely waving their Stars and Stripes.

Then his heart burst with pride. Those were his country's flags, his countrymen. For one glorious, breathlessly awesome moment, Charlie felt connected to them, sharing with them the same pride, the same patriotic fervour, the same desire to see America triumph, and he realised in those moments what a great responsibility had rested upon his shoulders as he led his team to victory. There was a sting behind his eyelids as he bent his head.

We've done it. We've done it. This is a victory that will forever grace the record books and we'll always

be remembered as the outfit that beat the Germans on their turf.

"Hey, Charlie, you praying?" he heard Prentiss' voice. He looked up at his friend. Dirk Prentiss had a wide grin, and he slapped Charlie's thigh hard.

"We've done it, Charlie, we've done it, man!"

Charles Miller's smile and shining eyes went sombre for a second as he looked at the thousands of red flags with the four cornered cross in the middle. His heart felt suddenly a little heavy. He had been reading about European affairs. Edward had been wary of the American team competing in Germany. Edward had the mind of a political analyst. Charlie remembered Edward's words, that Germany's meddling in Spain and Austria boded ill for the world, and that the rest of the world should view the Games with mistrust. Already Germany and Italy had signed a pact. Charlie thought how grim the German team had looked, remembered the way the spectators had reacted spontaneously at the opening ceremony when the host team entered the stadium through the Marathon Gate. Like one man, the populace had risen, raised their right arms with a downward show of palms as they shouted "Heil, Hitler!"

They were paying homage to a man, showering a man with exaltation. He had never in his life seen anything like it. It was not a deity, not a god to whom millions willingly enslaved themselves, or God whom millions revered in humble adoration, but a man. A common man.

The shout had an ominous ring to it. A portent of doom, something that had death and destruction riding pillion on a prayer.

The red flags went became a blur as Charlie's eyes focused on Prentiss.

"Yeah," he sighed, "we've done it…"

That night, Charles Anson Miller called his brother in Detroit.

"It was in a radio broadcast this morning," Edward's voice crackled. "You did America proud, my brother. So, the Germans proved tougher than you thought?"

Charlie cursed the connection, but it was a transatlantic call, what could he expect?

"You got that right, Edward. But it was good. We worked hard for this victory, and the boys were prepared to row against the best in the world. The best coxed teams the world could put on the water were here and we beat them."

Charlie could hear his brother's laughter that always seemed to grow from deep in his chest and rumble outward.

"I wish I could have been there, Charlie." Edward's voice sounded wistful.

"I know. But you gotta get better now. I was worried about you. You okay now?"

There was a slight pause on the other end and Charlie felt a sudden cold grip him.

"Hey, I can still walk. That's important, isn't it?"

Charlie Miller sighed. Edward had been sensitive since he contracted polio eleven years ago. Before Charlie left for Germany, Edward had just been discharged from hospital after suffering from pneumonia. His callipers were unwieldy and uncomfortable, but at least, he didn't have to use a wheel chair. Edward could swim and row, though, and he had a strong pair of arms.

"Hey, when I get back home, we'll go up the river in our canoe. I've got a two week break before I go to West Point."

Another pause. Again Charlie sighed. He had been nominated for acceptance although already a senior at university, and by the time the semester started at the end of the month, he would be twenty two. Just about. But the University of Washington had offered him a scholarship three years ago that he didn't want to turn down and that way he could satisfy both his own need to study the arts and humanities with a deep interest in history, especially military history, and his late father's dream of seeing his sons at the prestigious military academy. West Point was a gruelling four year training course but he was looking forward to it. Edward… Edward had those dreams before Charlie did. Edward who had polio and walked with difficulty. Edward who could row like none other.

"Sounds like a good idea to me, Charles," Edward said finally.

"It's a deal, then. Tell Mom I say hello. I sent Lucy a post card. I hope she gets it before I get home, Edward. I can't talk long. I just wanted to let you know we won, that I'm okay, you don't need to send me any money and I miss you all."

"We miss you too. Mom's pretty busy. You know how she gets when there are visitors. The neighbours have been enquiring after your success at the Games. At least Mom can give them first hand news now. She misses you, Charlie, but she's very proud of you. We all are."

"I miss her too. I miss the food! Tell the visitors the Germans were our toughest enemies."

Edward chuckled, but then his voice became serious. "If not now, they will be soon, Charles, and maybe in a different arena. Definitely in a different arena..." Edward's voice had an enigmatic tone to it. "Take care now, little brother…"

"You, too, Edward."

Charlie had hardly put the receiver back when Ellismere Reynolds in the Gymnastics team grabbed the phone.

"My turn, Charlie," he said with a smile. "My girl's waiting for this call in San Francisco."

"Give my regards, Ellis," Charlie said before sauntering off to the patio.

It was still humid and Charlie had no inclination to go out partying. He didn't want to see more prototypes of the German rowing teams in the streets either.

He had completed his studies, was excited to go to West Point. They were all going separate ways, except Dirk Prentiss, who was joining the army straight after the Games. Charlie wanted to rest, absorb the day's events and write them down in his journal. He wanted to mull over Edward's words. Edward was only a year older, but he was so much wiser, perhaps because of his serious illness as a boy when he was forced to convalesce for months in hospital. When he thought his mother and brother didn't notice, there was a yearning in his eyes to be an active young man, to be in the army. Yeah, Charlie thought, Edward shared the same dreams. But he could only sit on the sidelines and watch in frustration how able bodied young men waltzed into the army, air force and the marines.

Winning today had been good, but the words of the old Baron still rang in his ears. "The most important thing about life is not to conquer, but to struggle well."

He had a sudden recollection of his brother's words earlier over the telephone. It was like some warning, a portent.

"If they were not your enemies today, they will be soon…"

 **Day 9: Cycling - The 100km road cycling race [team challenge].**

One hundred and twenty eight cyclists lined up at the start-finish line of the endurance race. In a few minutes, the racers would challenge for the three podium positions that would ensure their names in the annals of the Olympic Games.

Berry Beaumont of France touched his knee gingerly and winced. It was still tender from the tumble he had taken the day before when the team had gone out in the early morning on a training ride. The three speed gears had given François a little trouble shifting into top gear. Before he knew it, François had collided with him and he slid from his bicycle, his left knee taking the brunt of the fall. The rest of the team had ridden off, not waiting for the two of them. Berry had shrugged it off, accepting that this was sport and they were preparing for the highest honours. There was no time for stopping. He was not France's first choice for 100km road cycle race, nor was he the second. He wasn't even the third, since François Fouché had clocked a better time than him at their national trials in June, although he knew he was the better rider.

France had a good chance to do well in the team event, and his inclusion in the cycling squad had come amidst joyous celebrations in his home town. He had returned home to hundreds of waving _tricolors._ St. Clair had come out in support of its lone Olympian, and what a reception it had been! He had been feted, young school children were following him, and suddenly he noticed so many more people on bicycles, especially the children. At his own school, he had delivered an address and one of the children had promised he'd win the Tour de France one cousin Brigitte had given him a resounding kiss on his cheek, then smacked him afterwards and declared:

" _C'est parce que tu es encore tombé de ton vélo!_ "

 _"Mon Dieu_! I do not fall deliberately from my bicycle, Brigitte!"

"Berry! I was worried about you!"

"Ah, yes, you're so concerned, Brigitte," he said sarcastically while rubbing his cheek where her palm had stung him. But in the next instant, she had hugged him enthusiastically again and all was forgiven. The sting of her palm was forgotten; he had looked into her eyes and could hear his heart thumping wildly again. " _Ah, Brigitte, ma petite…"_ he crowed. He ducked as he anticipated the next blow.

When they were children cycling round the countryside of St. Clair, Brigitte had unfailingly managed to trick him into pitching off his bicycle. She'd shout a warning that there was an obstacle in front of them, and suddenly, as if he actually saw the offending hurdle, he would try to perform a magnificent evasive manoeuvre. It usually landed him in the thorny ditch, to the delight of a hysterical Brigitte who couldn't contain her laughter for hours afterwards while she extricated the thorns from his body. There was no time to be embarrassed. He could never be embarrassed in front of Brigitte. As small children they had been bathed in the same tub by _Grand-mère_. He had nothing to hide. Berry gave a sigh. They had been so happy then when life was without complications!

He had tried to explain to her that he took a tumble when François caused the spill which brought the two of them down. That brought the mirth to her eyes, those laughing eyes that were always so animated whenever she had something new or exciting to tell him. Brigitte rarely stayed vexed with him for long, and the moment she had smiled at him after smacking him, he knew everything would be alright again. Brigitte's eyes had a fierce tenderness and pride in them when she spoke again.

 _"Je suis heureux que vous êtes sur léquipe._

Yes, he had been ecstatic that he made the national cycling squad. It had been his dream, inspite of the many times he had tumbled into ditches, or travelled hundreds of miles to get to the nearest competition venues and arrived too late, or, his bicycle damaged, was forced to retire from a race. But he had done it and one day, when he had a son, he would train him to ride in France's greatest cycle race, the Tour de France.

"I'm glad you're on the team," Brigitte had said with pride.

"Thank you."

Then he had kissed her too, on the lips. He had seen the look on that cocky American's face and proceeded to pull Brigitte in his arms. Anything to warn her off the foreigner, or to annoy the _imbecile_. Mostly, he wanted to annoy the man. Brigitte had been spending too much time in the foreigner's company, and forgot about her cousin and closest friend. He had been feeling cuckolded by the _imbecile_ ; not that he deserved the designation of "cuckold". He was after all her _cousin_. That was the way Brigitte had always treated him. They kissed, hugged, and that was all. What did she know of how he really felt? Cousins didn't fall in love. Not in Brigitte's books anyway. That foreigner had managed to confuse a few issues with Brigitte. So he held Brigitte to him and felt her warm lips melt under his. Only a moment though. And, she, as if she reminded herself that she liked someone else, had wriggled in his arms and appeared a little outraged before she playfully pinched his bottom. Berry sighed. They were favourite cousins, and Brigitte used her fists liberally on him whenever they argued.

He hadn't liked the American, he admitted. But Brigitte seemed to be taken in by him. He was too cocky, too self-assured, too damned arrogant, assuming that she'd run after him to America like a hound after a hare. And then, he had blue eyes. That counted for something. Shocking crystal blue eyes and blonde hair that stood out like a beacon in St. Clair. How could it not? How many young men walked about St. Clair with eyes the colour of the clear blue skies and hair the colour of ripened corn? Robert Davis was definitely different.

Berry felt the resentment rise in him. Their girls… they always fell for the foreign guys. It was, Berry supposed, his _foreignness_ , something - a novelty perhaps - in their small town that had a romantic air about it, something that brightened the dark hues and greys of their own lives, like a breath of fresh air and new hope. Brigitte fell for the handsome ones. When they had been children, he had his hands full killing off the opposition, even if they were _French_ , but those ones had come from other towns and settled in St. Clair, attending their schools, and always, they noticed Brigitte. She sparkled, always the first to make new friends. This time though… Berry sighed. He wasn't going to get rid of Robert Davis who spoke such crude French, who couldn't say _tricolor_ with any reasonable accent. If the i _mbecile_ could vanish into thin air he'd be happy. Berry half wished he had been back in St. Clair, to tell Brigitte to be careful, and tell that...that _foreigner_ to go. To go on. To go on a long holiday!

He would deal with her when he got home. He'd tell her Robert Davis is up to no good. He'd tell her she need look no further than her own countrymen if she wanted to attach herself romantically. He'd tell her she need look no further than her own cousin who had loved her since she wore pigtails and white ankle socks. Come to think of it, she still wore white ankle socks sometimes. Brigitte was at times still so _gamine_. When they were children, it had been hard to tell who was the boy and who the girl. Granted, he was only two years older than Brigitte but he was small for his age. _Grand-mère_ Amelie always dressed them up the same. _Grand-mère_ Amelie was not to be told what the rules were for little boys and girls. Only now Brigitte had started growing her hair again, for that _imbecile_ Robert Davis, no doubt. And Berry did so like the new look of Brigitte, with her hair almost shoulder length and falling in little curls about her face. Berry felt a warmth encircling his heart, creeping in towards the centre and spreading outwards, filling his whole body. Brigitte… Yes, when he returned to St. Clair, he'd deal with her.

But first he had to contend with his aching knee. Berry rubbed his knee. Shafts of pain made him wince when he touched the sensitised skin. The tendons at the back of the knee were sore. He swore under his breath. In a minute the race was about to start, and he would bring glory to his nation. Coach Luc Bénard had spat succinctly, "Forget the pain. It's mind over matter, boy."

Mind over matter? What mind was his that he thought of Brigitte and forgot about his pain? Mind over matter indeed. Perhaps he should just keep a mental picture of his cousin on his handlebars and he'd reach the finish line before he had any thoughts of pain.

Earlier today he had been to see their team doctor, who had taken one look at him and declared resolutely:

" _Mon Dieu_! You are not riding today."

"Excuse me, _Docteur_ ," he countered, proudly pushing out his chest so that it stood like the rounded breast of a dove. "Today, I ride for France to victory!" He might as well have thumped his chest like a champion chimpanzee the way he strutted. Strutted? He hobbled on one foot. It wasn't so bad, but _le docteur_ was always one to present a worse case scenario. The doctor's liquid brown eyes connected with his, and Berry could have sworn he saw a picture of himself on two crutches in their depths.

"You will ride for France into the ditch, Beaumont! You will make it worse by riding," Joseph Blumenthal exploded. "As the team doctor, I have the right to make this decision." Joseph's beard trembled the way his head shook as he spoke.

Berry looked at Coach Luc Bénard who took matters out of Joseph's hands when he said, " _Docteur_ , tonight you can bandage his leg. Bandage both his legs. Bandage both arms. Bandage his head, if you must. But today, Berry Beaumont will ride for France! _Vive le France_!"

Joseph Blumenthal ran his fingers through his thick light brown hair, then threw up his hands and exclaimed, "Bra _vo_! I'll offer my services to another team!"

Berry wanted to laugh at the way Joseph's beard trembled in his indignation.

He had left the medical tent before he heard the rest of the exchange between his coach and the doctor. The doctor must have relented finally because here he was, at the start of the 100km road race, riding for France.

The official had barked a few " _achtungs_!", got everyone's attention, then made a great fanfare of firing the starting pistol.

One hundred and twenty eight cyclists rushed into a mad scramble for early race positions, pedalling like mad through the narrow lanes of the countryside surrounding of the city of Berlin. It was the one problem the riders had. The lanes were narrow, and though not impassable, with so many riders bunching, especially on the sharp turns, the next spill waited round the bend. Then he had to contend with inexperienced riders and others who simply tried to spike him out of the race. It was the cut throat world of cycling for recognition and pedalling for glory. All it cost was a slight tap at his wheels or a push and a shove, and his race would be effectively over. This type of course was new to them, that much was clear as he watched riders struggling with gears, jostling for position. He was in the second bunch of the strong field. They were trailing the peloton by at least thirty seconds. Their two top riders were in that pack since he hadn't passed them. At the start they had just flown away as if they had forgotten they were a team. Robert Charpentier and Guy Lapébie had been on the winner's rostrum when they won the 4000m team pursuit the previous day, and they were riding hot on the success of yesterday's victory.

The cycles were fitted with the new three speed gears, and his whole team had taken to the faster speeds of their bikes. But it was clear many riders were struggling to get accustomed to the new regulations. Changing gears slowed them down a few critical seconds, causing those behind them to bail into them. It was why his pack had managed to stay at least within striking distance of the leaders. The route through the Olympic village was cluttered with eager spectators who spilled into the road to touch the riders. He shrugged it off, but it was very distracting. Already he had seen one rider pitching headlong onto the grass verge. He tried his best to steer clear of the odd pedals touching his bike, or some riders who deliberately shoved them aside.

He didn't feel the cold of the wind that seemed to cut into their bones, nor the gnawing, dull pain in his knee. No time to appreciate the beauty of his surroundings like yesterday. Then he had marvelled at the tall pines, the lush green of the forest. On his outside right, he noticed François who lifted one hand from his handlebar and waved gleefully at him. Then Berry watched with dismay as François sprinted away from the pack.

" _Merde_! The fool is getting away from me…"

He bent low over his bike, practically leaned on his arms and headed into the wake of the riders in front of him. Seconds later he broke away from the pack too. Rounding the first bend, he spotted François and another rider.

"Come on, Berry," he coaxed himself. "Do it for Brigitte. No, do it for France! Forget about the pain. _Vive le France_!" he cried as he pushed himself to the limit, but the two riders remained equidistant from him. He couldn't catch up, but they were all going fast as they approached the next bend, situated on a down run. They raced round the corner. _Calamité_! They almost stopped dead as they saw a massive spill in the narrow road, about a hundred metres ahead. A profusion of colour and tangled legs and wheels as some of the world's top riders bit the dust and bid farewell to glory. Ricardo Fiasconaro in the familiar blue and white of Italy remained on the ground. He had been slated to win…

" _Merde_!"

"Oh, my God!" cried the English rider.

"Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!" Berry yelled as he realised the opportunity to capitalise on the disaster; François had geared down and then crashed into the rear end of the spill.

Berry had just enough time to register that François had shot up on his bike again. He realised with heart thumping delight that he was in front of his team mate. In the distance, he saw Charpentier and Lapébie racing away from the crash. There must have been more than twenty riders on the ground. They were the best riders in the world, but they were down. All's fair in love and war. Down the gentle gradient he raced, with only seven riders in front of him. He knew he couldn't catch up with them. But he looked back, saw François coming up. That was when he stepped hard on his pedals, trying to keep François behind him. The snot had beaten him in the trials, but this time he was going to finish in France's top three. He was going to show François and Brigitte and Joseph Blumenthal and Luc Benard that he was made of the stuff France would need for victory. In the long straight to the finish, he saw Charpentier and Lapébie crossing the finish line. His lungs burned fiercely; his legs buckled as he, too, finally crossed the line. He raised one hand and bunched his fist in an exultant salute of victory. Still breathing heavily, Berry dismounted, rubbing his sore bottom as he guided the bike towards their own enclosure.

It was an ecstatic Charpentier and Lapébie who came up to congratulate him. He felt dizzy, drunk, euphoric. France had taken first and second, and they were good for team gold. In his mind there flashed an image of a smiling Brigitte. Berry closed his eyes and felt the first welling of tears. _For you, Brigitte. For you and for my country…_

Just then François also joined them and slapped him on the back. Berry hiccoughed. He looked through his tears at his team mates and smiled. Then suddenly, as if his injury reminded him that it was still present and very much an injury, his muscles and tendons pulled up and it felt to him that they were tearing away one by one from the bones that anchored them. The pain speared sharply through him. The smile left his face, contorting into ugliness as he strained to suppress the pain. His whole leg felt on fire. Grimacing, he tried to hear what his team mates were saying, but it sounded as a buzz that had reached from far away and couldn't quite register as clear sounds and words.

" _vous m'avez battu cette fois, Berry_."

"Those Germans thought they had the race wrapped up."

"A pity about Ricardo Fiasconaro…"

" _félicitations_."

" _nous sommes forts pour l'or d'équipe, types_." That sounded like Charpentier's voice.

But Berry could not discern Charpentier's words and only one word, as if the syllable had been accentuated and his ear caught only that, stood out: gold. Gold… The pain in his knee had tripled. He cried out as he began to collapse and before he knew it, he was lifted by François and Lapébie and carried to the nearest tent.

"Don't tell Doctor Blumenthal," he kept saying, groaning as he held on to them and the pain killed his knee. "Don't tell him. I'll kill you, you hear me?" he yelled at François Fouché. "I'll kill Brigitte. Oh, God… Brigitte! She's going to skin me alive!"

"What aren't they supposed to tell me? And who's Brigitte?"

"Brigitte is my cousin, and… hey, _Docteur_ …?"

"There, that should do it," a grinning Joseph Blumenthal said an hour later to a penitent Berry. At least, that's how Berry appeared. It was a mixture of penitence, pride and plain panic that Brigitte had better not find out that he'd injured himself again. Joseph had wasted no time in letting the young rider know just how seriously he had aggravated his injury, to the point that he might never race again at international level. But Joseph's rebuke had been tempered with immense pride that the young man had assisted in taking France's cycling team to victory. They had just been informed that the three best times of each team's riders had placed France first. The Swiss team had gained a valuable silver and Belgium finished the podium positions by taking bronze in the team event. Joseph ran his hand through his hair, a gesture he had been teased about, not only by the athletes of the French squad, but by Katrine. He was very proud, but also concerned that Berry Beaumont might possibly have jeopardised his future career. Joseph had his hands full with the rider who had been so bull headed, refusing treatment just so he could race.

Berry looked gratefully at him. Then his chest pushed out again like a round breasted dove when he spoke.

"Tonight, _Docteur_ , I shall phone Brigitte and tell her of our victory."

"Brigitte. Ah, the _cousin_ ," Joseph replied, putting a deliberate emphasis on 'cousin'. Berry had been bursting with pain and pride, speaking of Brigitte who just had to know of his victory.

"Do not mock me, _Docteur_. Brigitte will have my hide if she knew I am _injured_!"

"Good, then she should knock some sense into you."

"We won, didn't we?"

Joseph looked at his patient. The medal ceremony for the 100km cycling race was almost upon them and Berry Beaumont would hobble to the podium on a crutch. His mouth curved into an indulgent smile and he patted the young rider on the back. Berry was in love. A hopeless situation by the looks of it, since Brigitte had eyes only for a blue-eyed, blonde haired American who stayed for the summer in their little town of St. Clair. Brigitte was likely to throw the cousin bit at him, declaring they'd grown up together and familiarity breeds contempt, and so on. Joseph had been the willing ear - it was still ringing - of Berry's woes about injuries and Brigitte who never looked at him the way she looked at _The Foreigner_.

"Take great care with that knee, Berry. Now, be off with you."

Hardly had he spoken when Berry rose from the bench and took a few steps forward, his leg strapped up and looking stiff.

"Hey!"

"What now, _Docteur_?"

"Your crutch. You're going to need it…" He chuckled at the way Berry pulled his face, hobbled back on one leg and collect his crutch.

"Thank you, _Docteur_ …" he said mockingly.

When Joseph Blumenthal made a telephone call to Paris late that evening to speak with Katrine, he had not been surprised that she was still up, although it was past eleven o'clock. Their home was situated not far from the busy city centre and Katrine was always busy studying or reading the papers of her students.

"Célèstine misses her Papa. She's been restless since you left, Joseph,"

"Has she been good today?" he asked.

"Joseph, she's only a year old! But she is an angel."

"Of course. She takes after her Mama. She has to be an angel."

"You're saying that to placate me. But I love you for being so considerate, Joseph du Pléssis-Blumenthal."

"Thank you, my love."

"Oh, Joseph!"

"What is it, Katrine?" He pressed the telephone against his ear.

"I found the Matisse!"

He gasped. Katrine had been searching the last few years for that painting and he was happy for her. He played music for his diversion, and Katrine collected vintage wine and paintings.

"You're happy now?"

"Of course, Joseph. Now we can add it to our collection. Don't laugh!" she said when he chuckled.

Joseph could hear the laughter in Katrine's voice. She was a beautiful woman, a spirited one who was independent and clever, but he knew that wasn't why he'd married her. He had a great respect for her spirit, her intellect, her womanhood. But he had to admit, he'd married a woman who could have chosen someone else, someone not Jewish. Katrine was a modern woman. She was not one to let religious differences matter when it came to her happiness. They made a good couple, and a good working team. He, in medicine, sometimes indulging in his other love, playing the violin, and Katrine in the Sciences. She had won the Curie Medal in her second year at university. There was a kindness in Katrine, a sense of fairness and honour and pride that he could not help but admire. She cared deeply about her country, its inhabitants and its future.

"My heart is with you, _chérie,_ I take your image with me deep into my sleep, and when I dream, it is naturally of you and Célèstine…"

"Joseph, I think you should stick to playing the violin. I am very certain I shall hear the love poem in your music."

Joseph ignored her gentle teasing, and instead, asked, "Is that man still bothering you, Katrine?"

"I was engaged to him once, Joseph. But yes, he was in here yesterday, insisting that I don't miss you, that you have defected to America and that he would make a good father for Célèstine."

" _Ma chérie_ , you please be careful," Joseph said, unable to keep the concern from his voice.

Katrine had broken off her engagement to the magistrate and married him, Joseph. He sighed. They had fallen in love so quickly, completely without reserve and questions, which, naturally, came after they were married. But they had been happy, although the cuckolded Lucien Blériot had not given Katrine a moment's peace. He didn't like Joseph, and Joseph could understand why Katrine had broken her engagement. The magistrate had eyes in which, Joseph could see, lurked something devious. "Besides, I didn't love him, not really, you know. It was just to make my uncle Henri happy…" she had told him. Lucien Blériot had once remarked that he didn't like these mixed marriages at all, and why couldn't Katrine marry a true Frenchman instead of marrying a French Jew?

Joseph sighed. Things were happening in Germany that made them nervous. Already people were being moved to ghettos. He'd heard strange, unreal, thoroughly chilling accounts of treasures being confiscated. His last letter from Uncle Elimelech in Warsaw, although sounding optimistic, had undertones of gloom. The prospects were not good. Children of Jewish parents were being taken out of school… Still, he had wanted to come to Germany, wanted to be a non-participating member of France's Olympic squad. He had always had an interest in sport and had been working with athletes for the last four years. He felt a shudder.

 _Even if I take Katrine's name, I may not be safe. But now is not the time to make her unduly worried_. Perhaps he was putting the cart before the horse. He stroked his beard idly then smiled. Katrine had been so good about it, never saying anything, but he knew she didn't like it. Perhaps he could surprise her tomorrow when he headed for home.

"I'll be home next week, Katrine," he said at length. "I can't wait to get home. It's been wonderful being a team doctor to the national squad, but I long to sleep next to my wife and teach our daughter to play the violin."

"I miss you, Joseph," she said with a catch in her voice. Was Katrine crying?

"I miss you too, _chérie_ …"

Day 16: Equestrian event - The Prix des Nations

The day had started badly for cavalry lieutenant Baron Konrad von Wangenheim. First Helga's telephone call to his room at the Olympic village - he hadn't wanted to stay there but had no option - disturbed him. She had sounded so distant, and he knew it had little to do with the crackling of the bad connection but her lilting voice that was normally so animated had been less breathy and more sustained. He had been a little perturbed afterwards, thinking that she might after all have agreed to accompany Jürgen Schult to the recital. If she had said outright it was because of his arm, he might have believed her. But Helga had been evasive. That Jürgen was likely to poach Helga away from him. But no matter. Helga's loss could be readily absorbed with every brush stroke of Kurfürst's mane. Helga always did say he loved his horses more than he loved her. How could he refute such a truth coming from the woman he was thinking of marrying one day? Helga was lost to him. Her timid reassurances that she would wait for him to take her to the recital didn't matter anymore. He had a feeling Jürgen Schult would be only too happy to be Helga's companion. For life, even. But it rankled. He was a Baron, a _freiherr_ , wasn't he? Wasn't that enough for Helga? Or any other woman, for that matter? Konrad thought that should he ever consider another woman to warm his bed permanently she'd have to accept that he would always be the " _mein Pferd_ " type who would rather spend hours brushing down Kurfürst's magnificent mane than run his fingers through Helga's hair. No, it was definitely, " _zuerst mein Pferd, dann meine Frau_."

He shrugged off thoughts of Helga and eased her out of his conscience. At this moment he was wasting valuable time entertaining vague possibilities, even such a one as marriage. That was still too distant. Right now his arm, which was in a sling, demanded his attention, reminding him that it was about to send him into the realm of perpetual fire again. He had been there yesterday, in the water jump, howling with pain. Kurfürst had taken one look at the high hurdle and the deep ditch filled with water, then bucked, throwing his rider. Konrad had managed to release the stirrups and free his feet, but it was too late. He had gone flying through the air over Kurfürst's head with such speed that the ditch rushed up to him, taking him at such an angle that he landed heavily on his shoulder. He felt a snap, and after that all went dark for a few dizzying seconds in which he knew he must have fainted momentarily. When he stumbled groggily to his feet, it felt as if someone had punched him hard in the stomach, so winded was he. Struggling to mount Kurfürst again with an arm that hung useless, he completed the course, and only then the earlier panicked gasps that went up from the spectators changed to grateful sighs and sympathetic ah's as he finished.

He tried to forget the looks of defeat and disappointment on his team mates' faces when they learned that he had broken his collarbone. His retirement would have meant disqualification for the German team riding today in the _Prix des Nations._ For them the glory of victory weighed more heavily than their concern for his personal health and welfare. He sighed. It was not an accurate or fair assessment of the men who complemented the _Deutsche reiterlich Mannschaft_ , under the leadership of _Kapitän_ Ludwig Dürst _._ They were good men, comrades who rallied round him when he screamed as one of them touched his arm. No, it was his own absolute discipline and dogged refusal to let this latest mishap deter him from competing, which was the overriding factor.

Too much depended on his participation in the _Prix des Nations._ His honour was at stake, and the honour of the entire German equestrian squad. They had won every event thus far. All their hard work, the pain, the grit, the falls they had taken - he lost Isis that first year he trained with the squad - the new focus and goal oriented approach to winning had paid off. He had not wanted to let his team down. It was not necessary for him to win - that chance had been abysmally reduced to ashes - but his performance today could win them the team gold medal.

"The team will be disqualified, _Kapitän_ Dürst. You know that," he said yesterday and winced as he tried to gesticulate with his hand.

"You have a serious injury, _Oberleutnant._ You cannot - "

"I do not care if I have a broken leg, _Kapitän_ ," he cut in sharply, "but today, I must ride, and ride I shall."

"It is a sacrifice we must make, Oberleutnant. Germany will not be lost."

It was the wrong thing to say. The captain had looked at him, and Herr Doktor Schiller had shaken his head. Both had looked as if they had been deep in consultation without consulting his _Pferd_ Kurfürst, who after all, was the competitor today. He didn't much care how broken his body was, there was nothing wrong with his _Pferd_ and Kurfürst was ready to take those jumps, whatever the result. So his broken collarbone be damned. _Kapitän_ Dürst and Herr Doktor Schiller could appear for all the world that they had his own health at heart, but he could see in their eyes the brooding, the hope that Germany could have won their final gold in the equestrian event today. He had his answer for them.

"I will ride my honour and good name on my injured shoulder. It will be no sacrifice, Herr Doktor," he said firmly, grimacing again as another shaft of pain shot through his arm. It had been bandaged and secured close to his chest. He cringed as he flexed his fingers. "You must give me something to kill the pain, and I'll ride."

Herr Doktor Schiller blustered; his cheeks filled with air before he exploded, "But, Baron von Wangenheim! This is outrageous."

" _Meine Herren_! _bilden Sie es so_!"

Herr Doktor Schiller hesitated, his steel grey eyes narrowed, his cheeks puffed again and this time he tried to blow air through his nostrils. His hair stood away from his forehead, giving the impression that he had been running in the wind and didn't have time to smooth it down before he consulted with his patients. In short, Herr Doktor Schiller always looked unkempt and in a hurry. Konrad experienced a mild twinge of conscience that he addressed them with little regard for their positions. He knew he sounded superior, but he wanted so badly to compete in the _Prix des Nations_ that he didn't care very much about their reactions. There would be time for reflection after the _Spiele_. Then he could count the costs. For now, as long as he got the desired affirmation, he was satisfied.

So, after he had been treated by Herr Doktor Schiller, feted by Kapitän Dürst and lauded for the pending great gesture he was to make for _Der Reich_ and in the name of _Mannschaftsgeist_ , Baron Konrad von Wangenheim left the enclosure and prepared for today's show jumping. He'd had a reasonably good night and last night _Grossmutter_ Adelheid cheered him up by presenting him with her famed Black Forest Cake.

"Now, _mein Pferd_ ," he whispered close to Kurfürst's ear, "let's show them we can do it."

Just then the announcer called his name and that of his mount. Konrad felt the thrill course through his body. There was little pain in his arm now as the medication was taking effect. His fingers trembled only slightly as he held the reins, the leather thongs resting comfortably in his palms.

The bell went to start the timer and Kurfürst cantered to the first jump. The crowds cheered, and then the noise dimmed. Konrad felt their eyes on him, silently egging him on.

He reached the first jump. It looked ten metres tall and he felt the old, old exhilaration when Kurfürst rose magnificently to clear the bars.

Helmut von Wangenheim, dressed in the uniform of the _Hitler Jugend,_ sat with his mother, sister and Grandmother as they watched Konrad von Wangenheim take Kurfürst through his paces. Then he drew in his breath sharply, a reaction that was echoed by the thousands of spectators who filled the seats of the stadium. Konrad von Wangenheim, his elder brother, had just cleared the fourth of the jumps on his mount and Kurfürst cantered confidently to the triple fence. Helmut clenched his teeth, tensed as Kurfürst approached the fence. He wanted to close his eyes so that he didn't have to see how Kurfürst might stumble or something happen, but a strange numbness overtook him so that his eyes remained open and he had to watch the horse's next jump.

He had no idea that he had gripped his sister Erika's hand tightly, holding his breath as they waited for the jump

"Helmut!" Erika protested as she tried to pull her hand from his. He let go suddenly, a sheepish grin on his face as she rubbed her hand. Kurfürst approached the jump. Helmut rose to his feet, the strain of wanting his brother to succeed in spite of his injury too much for him.

The horse rose high to clear the first of the triple fence, landing on his forelegs before lifting and clearing the second fence. Konrad held the rein with his right hand, and bent over as if he whispered to Kurfürst and even from where Helmut sat with _Grossmutter_ von Wangenheim, Frau von Wangenheim and Erika, he could see Konrad calling to Kurfürst, encouraging him to clear the next fence. It seemed to him as if the action had slowed down and every movement that horse and rider made could be seen in isolation, each little move independent until it continued into the next and the next. In reality, Konrad on Kurfürst would clear the triple fence in perhaps five or six seconds, and it would be over. That was the reality, and that was the way it would be in a successful jump.

But the consternation on Konrad's face could be seen. He shouted something and then Kurfürst went down after sliding effortlessly over the second fence, landing and rising to clear the third. As Kurfürst stretched, his hind legs knocked down the twin poles of the fence. It was inevitable. Kurfürst stumbled, slid to his knees and unseated his rider.

Helmut gasped, dimly hearing Grossmutter's cry of alarm and wincing as Erika's fingers dug into his upper arm. He wanted to jump over the barricade and run to his brother's aid. It was clear Konrad was in deep pain as he held his arm and grimaced. They could see how his face contorted with pain as he tried to check his horse. Then Konrad mounted Kurfürst again and spurred his horse to continue to the next fence, again like the previous day, a water jump. Helmut could not but feel pride and admiration for his brother. That was what he, too, wanted to do soon, maybe at the next _Spiele_. Like Konrad, he wanted to represent Deutschland. That was his ideal. He could only imagine how much pain Konrad had to endure at this moment, and when they approached the water jump he could see how Kurfürst hesitated only a second before rising on his hind legs and cleaving the sky, a magnificent portrait of horse and rider. But Konrad, he knew, was in pain.

"Let him stop," he heard Frau von Wangeheim whisper. "Konrad has too much pain…"

"Konrad is like his father," Grossmutter said resolutely, "he will continue. He is a Von Wangenheim!"

"Yes, a Von Wangenheim with a broken shoulder," Frau von Wangenheim complained but Helmut saw how her eyes shone as they rested on her eldest son.

"Oh, Helmut," Erika exclaimed, "one day you'll ride like that!"

"I can already ride like that, Erika!"

"I said one day. You're still too impetuous, just like your Tannhauser!"

"At the next _Spiele_ , Erika, another Von Wangenheim will keep the banners of the family flying proudly," Helmut replied with an imperious air.

"By that time you should hopefully have grown facial hair, my brother, so that we know when you shave, you really are shaving off hair from your chin," she said tartly.

Helmut blushed, but he was quick with his next words.

"The girls like smooth chins, Erika." Helmut rubbed his chin. "Do not worry. Tomorrow night when I accompany Heike Maria Stroebel to the recital, she will like me. She already likes me..."

"Oh, you are so like Konrad - " Erika started.

"Konrad," Grossmutter interrupted their little conversation, her eyes on horse and rider, "will not accept defeat!"

As if Konrad heard his grandmother, he calmed Kurfürst. Kurfürst loosened the turf as he cleared the final hurdle. A sigh went up from the crowd as horse and rider streaked towards the finish and the clock finally stopped.

A tumultuous ovation met Konrad as he remained on Kurfürst. He removed his cap and held it in his injured arm close to his chest and with his right arm, gave the crowd the "Heil Hitler" salute. The spectators rose to their feet and Helmut's palms burned as he applauded his brother. He gasped

for breath as Erika hugged him fiercely. There were tears in his mother's eyes and while Grossmutter stood proudly watching Konrad saluting the people. Helmut felt a sting of tears behind his eyelids. He hoped that Erika didn't see, or that Grossmutter teased him again as the next Olympic rider of the Von Wangenheim family.

Konrad might not have won an individual gold medal, but his performance today, the last day of the Olympics, was solid enough, in spite of his serious injury, to clinch Germany the team gold for the "Prix des Nations". It was a singular honour for the host nation. They had won every event on the equestrian programme of the Games and Konrad's performance would be remembered for all time. He had taken his adversity and turned it into victory. At great physical discomfort, a supreme sacrifice through determination of spirit and national pride, his brother had helped Germany to triumph.

Helmut had been only thirteen when Konrad's favourite mount, Isis, had stumbled and broken her leg. It was a time of great sorrow for him, because he had loved Isis, had often ridden her on their Munziger estate. But Isis had been Konrad's horse and when Isis had to be put down, both he and Konrad had been inconsolable. Kurfürst had been a former racehorse, and it had taken a year to train him to jump. The great black stallion had what Isis didn't have: staying power. Kurfürst had grit, determination, but Kurfürst was also a performer, and therefore at times, capricious. Although, Helmut had to admit, Kurfürst's capriciousness could easily be forgiven as the great stallion, always, without fail, listened to Konrad's voice, getting up when he was down, going forward, trudging through the difficult course of the cross-country event that had bedevilled some of the greatest horses here at the _Spiele_. Champions they were, but so finicky, they couldn't handle the difficult course that had been designed for the Olympics.

"Konrad is in pain," Frau Ulrike von Wangenheim whispered, but her voice held strange tones of awe, sadness and pride all at once. Sadness that Herr Baron von Wangenheim, who had given her three wonderful children, could not be here to see her son's performance and share the family's pride that her son had done his best for his country.

"But it is a good pain, Ulrike," Grossmutter said with a superior air. "Now he can get to Herr Doktor Schiller who will once again blow his nostrils and fume that his favourite patient has aggravated the injury to his arm for the greater glory of Germany."

"How can pain be good?" Helmut asked, flabbergasted, but not really expecting an answer.

"Grossmutter, you know you do not like Herr Schiller."

"He grows hair in his nostrils," the old woman said to Erika as she folded her arms across her chest, a posture that suggested no one disagree with her statement.

Erika burst into laughter, and Ulrike coughed as she tried to stifle hers.

"You are right, Grossmutter," Helmut said at length. "It is a good pain. Tomorrow we take Kurfürst back to Munziger. Then Konrad can rest properly until his arm has healed before - before…"

"Before what, Helmut?" Frau von Wangenheim asked.

Helmut turned to look at his mother, Konrad and Kurfürst for the moment forgotten. In her eyes he saw the worry which she tried very quickly to disguise, an attempt he thought was futile. He was her son, her youngest child, but he was seventeen, and very soon he'd be called for military duty. He could do manual labour in work camps or on the roads, but Konrad and Grossmutter wanted him to sign up with the army.

"Very soon, Helmut, every young man over the age of eighteen - perhaps even as young as sixteen - will be called for duty to Deutschland."

"Konrad, you speak as if there will be a war soon," Helmut had countered.

"You can depend upon it, Helmut. Do you suppose that _der Führer_ has summoned every young man in the Reich to the Jugend for nothing? What have you not learned about its ideals, my brother?"

Helmut had not wanted to pursue that argument. He cared nothing for war, loved school and his beloved Tannhauser, played piano and was passionate about Munzinger, their estate. He loved the forest and loved the land. He had no inclination to take up arms and kill an innocent person. His friends, who were all members of the _Jugend_ with him, already boasted about their training in combat and the use of weapons so that they could kill off...the enemy. They wanted to be in the thick of war games. He wanted to be in school, learn everything there was to learn. They wanted to learn more about the _Schutstafel_ , he wanted to study the arts and play piano. They went on long hikes, he wanted to go to recitals and ride Tannhauser. Helmut sighed. It was no use complaining. He had to enlist, and that was it. He hoped it would all be over soon so that he could go home and be with his family.

Konrad had joined the cavalry, an elite assembly of Germany's finest horses and horsemen. Konrad had been home only for short periods, time when the two brothers could ride Kurfürst and Tannhauser deep into the forests that surrounded their estate. Those were precious days, but Helmut knew his own days were numbered. Very soon he'd also only return home for weekend passes, short vacations that went by too quickly. Erika and Grossmutter and his mother would then be alone.

Konrad had sometimes been too much like their father when it came to discipline and freedom, and he had not minced his words when it came to accompanying young girls to concerts.

"They are second in your life, Helmut. Remember that."

He could never understand that part about Konrad, and thought his older brother played far too much with the feelings of women. Now he, Helmut, had still to a lot to learn about women and supposed that Konrad who knew everything, was right about them.

Helmut gave a long drawn out sigh. His mother wanted an answer. Why was she waiting when she knew what he was going to say? So, while they waited for Konrad to finish with Herr Doktor Schiller and be congratulated by his team, Frau von Wangenheim's eyes were on Helmut, demanding his response.

"You know I will be called for duty, Mother, as soon as I turn eighteen. Labour camps or army. It's either one or the other."

"Why not the one?"

Because Konrad and Grossmutter would be disappointed if he did not enlist in the army. He loved his mother, but Konrad was the head of the family and his word was law...

"The other..."

"In a month's time," Erika added to his woes.

"We are Germans, Helmut, and we have a duty," Grossmutter said, and Helmut thought her voice didn't sound kind. Why was Grossmutter always on them to do the country proud? Of course he was proud. He had been to Nürmberg two years ago when his Führer had addressed the nation at the Sixth Party Congress, and it was the voice of their leader that added to his great presence, pulsating with patriotic pride.

Yes, he had been proud then, proud to be a member of the Youth.

But, he was also a little afraid.

When he and Konrad were both away from home, what then? He had heard strange stories and seen his great friend Eli Belzinger taken from his class at school. Eli had looked one last time at him, and even now, Helmut could see the eyes of his friend. Eli's eyes had shown not fear, strangely enough, but something else, like a hidden knowledge deep inside him that made him calm. Eli had walked behind Herr Völker as the old teacher strode out of the classroom. Herr Völker had returned minutes later and even now Helmut wondered about the tears he had seen in the old man's eyes.

That was when he became a little afraid. A few days later Helene Maister and Josef Kremer did not arrive at school. It was only then he heard… Helmut looked at his mother whose eyes were shielded.

"Before I sign up for duty, Mutter," Helmut replied finally. Grossmutter grunted and his mother and Erika sighed. They knew that after his birthday they would see very little of him. But for the next few precious weeks they had Munzinger, Konrad, their horses. In short, they would be a family.

How long they would be a family was what remained uncertain. Helmut looked at the entrance of the enclosure and saw Konrad at last reappearing and heading for them. He had a broad smile on his face, walking proudly erect and looking very distinguished in his uniform as he reached them. He appeared to have forgotten his pain, and when he removed his cap in the presence of his mother, sister and grandmother, his hair shone like gold in the sun. Then he turned to face Helmut and said:

"Well, we've done it, haven't we? Germany has triumphed once again."

END THIS CHAPTER

TBC CH. 2


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER TWO

 **Fort McClellan - July 1940**

Several officers of the 10th regiment congregated around the bus depot. They were heading to different destinations all over the United States.

First Lieutenant Charles Miller looked around him at the throng of soldiers, anticipation gripping him. After intensive training the last six months, seven days a week, they longed for a break. Everyone was looking forward to vacation time, when they could go home to family, rekindle old friendships, make new ones, go to the movies, dance all night to the tunes of Cole Porter and Irving Berlin and sleep with their girlfriends.

He was in a hurry to get home, to see his mother, brother and sister. Most of all, he wanted to see Lucy. They'd corresponded throughout his years at the Academy and he had always looked forward to her letters. Lately though, they had become sparse, just titbits of home, the weather, who was in hospital, who was not. Still, he was anxious to be reunited with her. He was itching to get out of uniform knowing that when they returned from vacation, all contact with the outside world would become almost non-existent as most of their operations would be covert.

Charles sported the insignia of his rank, a single silver bar pinned to his cap, with a rhombus-shaped red diamond on his sleeve. He'd been inducted into the regiment of the Fifth Infantry, a division of which he was extra-ordinarily proud because of its long and illustrious history. Sighing happily, he moved to board the shuttle.

"Where are you heading, Lieutenant?" 2nd Lt. Matthew Crowe asked as Charlie hauled his duffel over his shoulder and glared at Matthew.

"As if you didn't know. Home, Crowe, to where the heart is."

"Let me guess - your heart's name is Lucy." Matthew ribbed him playfully, his piercing blue eyes filled with mirth.

"Got that right. See you in a month at Fort McCoy!" Charlie shouted as he got on the bus.

He cast one last glance at his comrades who'd trained with him the past six months. Crowe still looked fresh-faced, a graduate of West Point, like himself. Although two years younger, they had finished in the same year. Crowe looked ready to play war games, "just as soon as the United States decides to throw in their lot with Britain" he'd said after Britain declared war on Germany last year.

Charles moved to the back of the shuttle. Although it would be only twenty minutes to the airport, he wanted to relax undisturbed and mull over the last few years while he'd been away from home.

When he was comfortable in the back row, he closed his eyes, allowing the echoes of their demanding training regime, lack of sleep and extreme physical endurance to seep from his body. He needed to unwind. He needed to think about his future, about war. While America was not yet engaged, he sensed they would be soon, if he believed his brother's last communication with him.

"I don't trust the Japanese, Charlie. I think they're planning a strike against the United States."

"You sound certain, Edward."

"I can tell you they want to protect their territories in East Asia and the Pacific. Something will happen, make no mistake about that."

Charlie had wanted to laugh off his brother's concerns, but the way the United States was training thousands of young officers and had enlisted hundreds of thousands of recruits, he knew they meant to be ready for anything. Besides, Japan had signed treaties with Italy and Germany and fighting had already begun in the European theatre.

Charlie smiled to himself. His four years at West Point had been everything he'd wished for and more. He had graduated after gruelling training, with a . degree cum laude, adding that to his University of Washington's arts degree. He felt badly for his brother. Edward couldn't enlist in the army because he had been crippled by polio in childhood. He had earned a masters degree in international affairs, and had a very sharp mind and intellect.

Edward desired what Charlie had achieved - military academy, rowing glory, full able body. Charles loved Edward and he was sure his brother loved him. But occasionally he could see the regret lurking in Edward's eyes, the mild flash of resentment, the fleeting anger as he looked at his legs in callipers.

When Charlie had returned from the Olympics in Berlin, the entire city had come out to welcome him. He had been feted for a day. His gold medal graced the bookshelf of his room in Detroit. Not long after his return home, he had to leave for West Point, embracing the best four years of his life thus far. He breathed war, read extensively the works about great generals of history, had taken Latin classes at Washington and West Point to acquaint himself with Caesar's Wars, Hannibal, translated texts of the exploits of Napoleon and Alexander the Great.

Charlie patted his top jacket pocket, felt the outline of the small book he always carried.

"Caesar's Gallic Wars. A useful learning tool," Edward had called it. "You learn anything from it?"

Charlie could have sworn there was an acid tone to his brother's voice, but he'd dismissed it. He wanted to cut Edward slack, as long as he contained his sarcasm. Then it was all Charlie could do not to get mad at his brother.

He rocked to attention when he realised they'd reached the airport. He'd be home in three hours if it was a smooth, incident free flight.

The flight attendant smiled at him. He recognised the look and nodded curtly. The few times the boys had been on the town in uniform, they'd been constantly ogled - women smiling sweetly, hoping to be noticed, hoping to be bedded. Men in uniform... What was it with women these days?

On an impulse, he reached for his duffel and retrieved a small batch of letters. Some were from his mother, others from Edward and Winonah, his sister.

He flicked through them and found Lucy's latest letter to him. He opened it and made sure the passenger next to him couldn't see what he was reading.

 _"Dear Charlie,_

 _How are you? I heard you received a commendation at West Point for saving a fellow cadet from drowning. That is so you, you know, always ready to jump to the rescue of the helpless._

Charlie thought how stupid Emlyn Steinbeck had been that day. Fool cadet got into West Point on the strength of his three star general father, a hero of WWI. The son was not fighter material. He shrugged. All sorts were represented at West Point, even overseas students and sons-of-generals who would themselves rise to the top based on nothing but someone else's reputation.

 _I am doing fine. Had my eyes tested in June, now I have to wear spectacles all the time. Good thing, that. I was seeing double every time I looked at you and Edward. You are so much alike in physical appearance. I know you know that Edward has taken a new posting as History professor at the University of Michigan. Just thought I had to say it too! He's only twenty eight years old, one of the youngest! Aren't we all proud of him?_

Again, as in the first time Charlie read Lucy's letter, he sensed a certain pride for his brother and a flutter of disquiet. Why should Lucy not feel that way too? Everyone at home was proud of Edward's achievements. He remembered how he and Edward had loved reading from a very early age, encouraged by their father who told them, "I want my children to be educated, not stupid. That's that!"

He thought of Lucy, of the corn coloured hair that glinted when caught in the sun's rays, of the tender smile, of beautiful blue eyes. He had loved her since he first saw her when still in high school. She was two years younger, but she stood out. He'd fallen for Lucy hook, line and sinker. When he brought her home to meet his family, they'd all loved her immediately. She was kind, generous, sparky and she loved him back. After that Lucy had visited their home often, as much as he visited her home.

During his years at West Point she'd written frequently. Her letters were buoyant, full of promise, full of the flush of youthful love. He had not slept with her, though he knew that would change soon. As soon as she said "Yes, I'll marry you, Charlie Miller." He had respected her person, felt that that kind of intimacy to be part of that respect.

 _I miss you. I hope to see you soon before I forget what you look like! Please don't make me miss you too much! Did you know Edward took me to Lake St. Clair? He taught me to row. We took your old boat down by the lake. I can understand your fascination with rowing, both of you! Even though Edward wears callipers, it doesn't stop him from using his upper body strength. I enjoyed rowing. I told Eddie I'd like to do it more often."_

Eddie? No one called his brother "Eddie". Their father hated pet names, or shortening their names. "God gave you those names. Keep them intact! That's that!" he'd always bellowed when someone called him "Charlie" or "Chuck". Charlie felt the cold grip of fear again, though why he felt like that, he didn't want to entertain.

"I'd better get home and marry Lucy straight away," he muttered to himself as he closed the letter and carefully slid it back in its envelope.

He opened another letter.

 _"Dear Charlie,_

 _I don't think your mother is well at all. Please hurry home. I think she misses you terribly. If you ask me, I think she loves you best. Is it because you always knew how to massage her back whenever she had a headache?_

Why didn't Edward write to tell him that Mama was sick? He'd have rushed home as soon as possible. He could always catch up once back at the barracks.

Yeah, I was the only one she trusted to massage her back, he thought.

 _Did you know Edward gave me a lovely pair of earrings for my birthday? I love them. They fit beautifully with my new dress. I wore the dress and earrings when I went to church. Edward said it looked lovely._

Edward. Edward. Edward.

He of the polio and callipers who hated the polio and callipers because they wouldn't let him serve his country in a war he knew America would engage in very soon. The rest of the world was on fire. Why couldn't the US burn along with it and Edward could go and be a hero? _That_ Edward. His brother's name was cropping up in Lucy's letters one too many times!

Oh, let me get home soon!

It was a little overcast when the plane touched down at the airport. Charles was on the tarmac as soon as it was humanly possible, slinging his bag over his shoulder. In the distance he saw a familiar face behind the barricade. Her hair, blonde like their mother's, was caught in a ponytail. He saw her wave and his heartbeat quickened. Home! Almost!

"Charles!"

"Winonah! Good to see you!" Charlie dropped his duffel and grabbed his sister in a big bear hug.

"You're squashing me!" she complained.

"Sorry. I forget you're as tiny as Mama."

He put her down. Her eyes sparkled. Then she spontaneously hugged him again. They stood that way for several minutes then Charlie kissed the top of her head.

"And why the love?"

"Because! Boy, am I happy to see you. Come, the transport is waiting." Winonah pointed to a vehicle. Charlie frowned.

"Since when did you own a vehicle?

"I don't! I borrowed Lansing's car."

"Lansing? Who the hell is Lansing?"

"Boyfriend. Now let's get going!"

Winonah grabbed his free hand and pulled him to the car.

"A Pontiac? Winonah?"

"His dad owns a car dealership. C'mon, slowcoach!"

He dumped his duffel in the back, then stood resolutely at the driver's side.

"What now?" she asked, the dimples forming in her cheeks as she smiled.

"I drive."

"Charlie, I promised Lansing!"

"I'm not getting in."

Winonah hesitated a minute before she relented with a big sigh.

"Please, don't crash the car, okay?"

"Okay!" he barked as he got in the driver's seat and set off for the suburb of Claremont, of the leafy lanes, wide roads and homes with picket fences and wraparound porches.

"Oh, Charlie," Winonah said as she clutched his arm, "we missed you so!"

He mussed her hair, much like he'd done as a kid. "Missed you too, squirt."

"I'm twenty two, in case you haven't noticed."

Charlie looked at her indulgently. "Of course I noticed. I guess your Lansing noticed. Hey, he hurts you, I'll come baring my teeth and using my fists, okay?"

"You'll do no such thing, Chuck!"

"Don't call me Chuck!"

"Charles Anson Miller, if you don't put out the trash now, I'll wallop your behind!" Winonah said in a good imitation of their late father.

They drove a few miles then approached the suburbs. Charlie's heart skipped a beat. Winonah was garrulous, could never stop talking, but the things he wanted to hear from her didn't come. Like their mother who was ill according to Lucy, like how is Edward doing, like how their mother was doing. He decided to dive right in.

"Lucy wrote me to say Mama wasn't so well."

"Just a little heart flutter, Charles."

"I should come home more often," he said absently as he drove through the streets of Claremont and pulled up alongside the kerb in front of their home.

"More often as in once every six months?"

He nodded. During training, home was far away. He had little time to ponder on going home for visits. Missions were covert these days; he had to keep his mouth firmly shut, even if it hurt those closest to him. Still, he felt something was amiss and he couldn't put his finger on it.

Winonah gave him a long, penetrating look.

"There's something you're not telling me, Winonah?"

"Uhm, no! It's nothing. Come, Mama's waiting."

Charlie grabbed his bag from the back seat and followed his sister inside. His room was always still available, one thing his mother had insisted on.

"Mama! I'm home!"

He heard steps coming from the kitchen. His mother, very small of stature, as blonde and blue-eyed as her sons were dark haired and dark eyed, appeared in the passage. His heart skipped a beat. She didn't look dead to him. That was a major relief. Were they lying? He removed his garrison cap and opened his arms.

"Mama!"

Then Charlie scooped her up in a great big bear hug and swung her round. He kissed her, hugged her and swung her round again.

"Put me down, Charles Anson Miller! Put me down!"

He put her down. She smoothed the skirt of her dress and smoothed back her hair he'd just mussed. Then she gave him a playful slap against the arm. Suddenly she hugged him again, fiercely, for long minutes. Winonah had meanwhile vanished into the kitchen.

"Mama, what's wrong, Mama?" he asked as he pressed her gently away from him. "Winonah told me your heart is tired."

"I must just take it very easy, the doctor said."

"Old Doctor Wachinsky?"

"That one."

"Okay, just let me get upstairs to freshen up and I'll come down to have your lovely mince pie."

"Good," she said. "Just don't eat everything, okay?"

He kissed his mother, then rushed to his bedroom. It was time to get out of his uniform. His mother, he knew, would send it off to the dry cleaners. He had a month's vacation, all accumulated after four years at the Academy and the last six months at Fort McClellan. He placed his cap neatly on the bed stand. It sported a rank pin on the left and the crossed rifles of the 5th Infantry on the right.

Charles sighed happily as he threw himself down on his bed and looked around his room. Flags, banners, bunting, all in the colours of his high school, rozettes of all his rowing achievements at the University of Washington and accreditations from West Point. Mounted on the wall in a frame just above his bookshelf was his gold medal from the Berlin Olympics.

He still rowed as much as he was allowed to. The Academy had a rowing team and he'd been automatic choice to cox their eights, which he'd done for four years, rowing against other Academies and universities. When he'd arrived at West Point, boxing and rowing were his sports of choice. He loved both, but rowing gave him the kind of freedom he enjoyed - the open water, the wind in his hair, the sun on his face.

He gave a satisfied sigh as he got up and headed for the bathroom. "Ah, a home shower and endless hot water!" he murmured as he let the water stream over his face. "It's good to be back!" Then he broke loose singing, "Heaven! I'm in heaven!"

That was when he remembered suddenly. Lucy loved Irving Berlin songs. Where was Lucy? Where, for that matter, was Edward? Lucy usually hung around the house on those rare occasions that he'd been home. His heart raced. He had to find Lucy to give her the greatest gift!

"Lucy!" he cried out.

Minutes later he was dressed and downstairs in the kitchen. The two women appeared very busy. When they looked up, something registered that they didn't appear surprised, as if they expected him to burst through the door. He stood, hands against the jamb.

"Alright, where is Lucy? And where is Edward?"

Althea Miller looked at him, her eyes growing soft, filling with compassion. Winonah looked guilty. His gaze swept from his mother to his sister. Something was going to punch him in the gut, maybe an awful truth his mind refused to anticipate.

"Winonah?"

"Charles," his mother said, "please, you must understand - "

"Where are they? Are they together?"

When they didn't respond, he said again, "Together, I take it?"

Lucy's letters, all about Edward, Edward, Edward...

Everything inside him seemed to shut down. He could feel his heart rate slowing or racing, what did it matter? It was hurting every time he tried to take a breath. He closed his eyes, trying to wait out the painful stabbing in his chest, trying to breathe slowly - shallow short puffs to minimise the pain. He tried to clear the dreadful deafening sound in his head as if a shell had exploded next to him, physically crying out as the imagined shrapnel hit his body.

When the echoes drifted away, names, places, events came into his mind again.

Lucy. Edward. Crippled Edward. Clever, brilliant, older brother Edward who loved him. Is what he kept thinking. Lucy, sweetheart, sensitive, Lucy who loved story telling. Lucy who loved him. Is what he kept thinking.

At last he managed to open his eyes and look at his mother.

"Mama?"

"You were gone so long, son."

"Lucy couldn't wait for me?"

"It's not that - "

"Shut up, Winonah. You were all in this, weren't you? Everyone deceiving me. Mama, you too?"

"Leave Mama out of this, Charlie."

"Mama?" he asked again, expecting his mother to know everything, to tell him everything. His brother Edward and the girl he hoped to marry, together.

"I am so sorry, Charles - "

"No one wrote to tell me what was going on? To tell me the truth, at least!" he began shouting. He rushed forward, grabbed his mother's arms, oblivious of the yelp of pain she gave. He shook her.

"Charles, stop! You're hurting Mama. Don't shake her like that. Stop, please! I'll tell you where Edward lives."

Realising his hold on his mother was distressing her, he released her instantly.

"I'm sorry, Mama."

"Forgive them, Charlie - "

But he'd already taken the note on which Winonah had quickly scribbled an address, shoved it in his shirt pocket and headed for the garage.

"Charlie! Don't! Leave them. Don't do anything stupid!"

But he was already through the kitchen side door, entering the garage. Winonah followed him.

"Charlie, what are you going to do?"

He looked dazedly at his sister, still unable to compute how they could lie to him. His own family. Lucy, whom he wanted to marry because she was so kind, gentle and pure.

"Nothing that will put me in jail, Sis. Go and calm Mama. Go!"

"Charlie, don't do - "

"Now, Winonah!"

"Who will open the garage door for you? Huh?"

In their old pickup that he and Edward had taken turns to ride - they'd always supported the brakes with little pads so Edward could reach the pedal - he lifted the top flap where they stored the ignition keys. Winonah had rushed to open the garage door for him. He was out the minute there was enough space for him to reverse the vehicle into the road. He smelled rubber as he sped off. Ranger Park was not far. In fact, Lucy lived in Ranger Park. He checked the address again. It wasn't her home address. Some other location in that suburb.

He bit back a sob. He'd loved Lucy when he was very young, he'd loved her when he rowed the Washington coxed eights to glory, he'd loved her when he studied his nut off during his Academy days, dreaming of her, wanting her by his side, being teased by his fellow cadets for the picture of her against his locker door. He loved her when he spent days in driving rain and mud slides on maneuvers in secret locations, thinking of her. He'd loved Lucy with youthful abandon. She loved him back, in those heady days when all they did was kiss and cuddle, when all he wanted to do was more than kiss and cuddle, to make love to her. But he'd wanted to wait 'til they were married.

Now Lucy was with Edward. Edward who warned him about chances taken and chances lost. No matter that they were said in relation to taking up studies and pursuing his dreams. Or said in relation to being the best of the best, the cream of the crop; to grab every opportunity at coming greatness, perhaps not even greatness, just the simple act of saving a cadet's life.

Not grab a chance when your younger brother is away, far away!

No, he wasn't going to bawl his eyes out. For that he was too flaming angry.

He stopped in front of a house, not unlike all the houses of the area - white picket fence and wraparound porch. Edward lived here? he wondered idly.

"Edward! Edward!" he started screaming the minute he got out of the pickup, jumped over the fence and rushed to the front door.

Edward Aaron Miller held his breath as he heard his brother's strident voice. He had known Charles would come. They had talked about it, thought it wise that he remain home, that Charles would make his appearance. Mama had been apprehensive, yet so strong, telling them she would be the first line of defence when Charlie came home.

He glanced at Lucy, his eyes tender as they rested on her. People, he reckoned, fell out of love just as easily, as quickly as they could fall in love. And when the love stopped, it was often so insidious that it surprised one, realising finally that there was nothing but ashes left of their dreams. Lucy had loved Charlie since their high school days, in the flush of youth. But Charlie's first love was always the military and water sports. Away at university and the Academy, the few times he had visited home, what quality could there be to keep the flame burning? Writing letters to keep a relationship alive... How often could people successfully sustain a loving relationship through love letters especially when so young? And over great distances?

Edward had watched with aching sadness his brother and Lucy together, their openness, their unreserved affection. He had loved Lucy forever, even when she was still so emotionally tied to Charlie. He could only love her from a distance, never reveal his true feelings, angered whenever Lucy waited for Charlie to come home and he never did. Angry that Lucy was so heartsore when Charlie didn't write back. But she had loved his brother. It was always just Charlie. At school, the girls fell for his attractive brother. He, Edward, seemed invisible to them. And why not?

He was a cripple, a victim of polio when he was a child, forever struggling with braces and callipers, moving about with difficulty. When he got too tired, he had to use his crutches, adding to the monstrous weight he carried. He never complained, never. Only on the water was he Charlie's equal. That had been at their father's insistence. He could swim as well as his brother, had equal upper body strength since he kept up with rigorous exercising, toning his muscles. At night he had taken to massaging his legs so that his calf muscles didn't atrophy. Within his standards, he maintained peak physical fitness. Yet it wasn't enough for the United States army. His ability was never recognised, his disability a disadvantage for any kind of combat.

During their school years, they had gone down to Lake St. Clair where their father had taught them to row. He rowed as well as his brother, or almost as well. He was forever grateful to their father that he hadn't deemed polio or being crippled as a deterrent to any achievement. Their father acted as if he, Edward, didn't have a disability. "Now, son, there is no need to sit about doing nothing. You swim, you sail, you row. That's that."

Those were happy days, when their father, strict but loving, had been alive and they had looked forward to going down to the lake at every opportunity.

Now Charlie, rushing to their front door, seemed like he was on a war path. There was a loud banging on the front door.

He inhaled deeply, then touched Lucy's cheek gently.

"Lucy, sweetheart, give us a minute, will you?"

He saw the apprehension in her eyes, her hand instinctively stroking her swollen belly. She nodded and walked to the kitchen, while he moved through the lounge to open the door. He was pushed roughly back inside the moment the door opened.

Charlie glared at him, dark eyes full of rage.

"Where is Lucy?" he demanded.

"Charles, let me explain - "

"What is there to explain? You all lied to me. Lied to me!" Charlie grabbed his shirt front, shaking him. "Why, for the love of God?"

"You were never home. Lucy..."

"Can come home with me, Edward. Now!"

When he tried to resist the hold on his shirt, Charlie let go one hand and swung his fist. It hit him on the jaw. He went flying as he let go of the crutches, landing hard between the coffee table and the sofa. He gave a cry of alarm when Charlie reached for him again.

"Charles! Charles! Let him go, please! Let him go!"

He had been so angry that he hit his brother. The moment he heard Lucy's voice, he looked up and saw her standing in the doorway between the kitchen and lounge. She wore glasses, making her eyes even larger, now filled with alarm as she reached for Edward. Charlie's heart raced as he gazed at Lucy, the girl he'd loved since high school. When Lucy stood up, bracing Edward, Charlie's eyes widened.

"Lucy? You - you are pregnant?"

"Edward and I are married, Charlie. Yes, we're going to have a child. I'm so sorry. I love Edward..."

Her eyes pleaded with him. Edward's arm encircled her shoulder. They looked...close, Charlie realised absently.

That fanned his rage even more as he blinked hard, trying to imagine that what he was seeing couldn't possibly be true. Edward, his brother, and Lucy, his girlfriend, married to one another, pregnant with their first baby. He felt the familiar contraction in his chest again, grabbed for a moment ineffectually at his shirt front, trying to dim the pain. He looked at them through a blur.

"Why didn't you tell me? I love you, Lucy. We wrote letters, didn't we?"

"You were never home, Charlie. It was so difficult. I guess it was futile to keep up writing, especially when I realised I was falling in love with Edward. Yes, Charlie, I loved you once. But I needed you near to me, I guess."

"And Edward was near? Is that it? Poor, dear, _crippled_ Edward?" Charlie uncharacteristically stressed the 'crippled'. He didn't mean to. It slipped out. "Edward was always home, right?"

"Charlie, I love Lucy; I've always loved her even when she was with you. She fought it, you know that? She fought her feelings for me, always saying how guilty she felt about you."

"You betrayed me! All of you! Mama included!"

Charlie stepped closer to Lucy, who shrank back.

"I always wanted to be with you. Always," he said softly. "There wasn't a moment that I thought I wanted someone else. It was always you. I thought what we had was enough. I thought it was everything. Those times I came home, it was thinking of you that made me rush home. Wasn't that enough? I thought you would wait..."

"Please, please understand, Charlie. I didn't want to fall out of love, but it happened. I am so sorry," Lucy said as Edward pulled her closer to him.

She glanced up at her husband and smiled. Charlie felt excluded, a giant fist seeming to hit him hard against his chest. He actually felt winded. The great rush of anger and hatred deflated. Where was his fight? Wasn't he supposed to fight for his girl? The same girl who now stood, her hand clasping Edward's so trustingly that he remembered the old days when she had stood that way with him.

That was the moment he realised it was finally over.

"Go to hell," he said as he turned and left the house, got into the pickup and began driving.

Married! Baby! Lucy pregnant with his brother's child! Lucy married to his brother!

He drove through the city, his mind in a whirl. He'd trusted Lucy, he'd trusted Edward to keep an eye on Lucy, to look after her. His heart was sore with a deep, aching pain that wouldn't let go of him. Trust! What did it gain him? Nothing!

Except on the base. He trusted his fellow officers and they trusted him. That was where he felt safe, covered by their loyalty to him and his to them. He knew where he was on, he knew where he was off. There was no duplicity, no betrayals.

No more girls for him, except if they sold their services in seedy holes in the belly of the city.

When he eventually came to a stop, he was surprised to feel the cool breeze of Lake St. Clair fanning his fevered face. As if he'd woken from a bad dream, the lake came into view, gleaming in the late afternoon sun, its water still, with hardly a ripple on its smooth surface. A perfect day for rowing, he decided as he got out of the pickup and walked down the embankment to the Claremont boathouse. There were about twenty rowing boats stored along the narrow strip of beach. Theirs were the second and third. Their father had been a keen rower in his day and his work as an engineer had more than paid the fees for housing boats, university education.

Yes, they were probably better off than many in the post Depression economy. Their two shells lay side by side. He flipped the yellow shell and gently pushed it towards the water's edge. The oars lay along the length of the boat. As soon as he was in the boat, his hands firmly on the oars, Charlie gave a huge sigh. The oars were old friends as he pulled the blades in the water, the first catch just a few metres from the edge.

Soon he was on the open water, the blades rhythmically in a catch- release-finish action. Charlie leaned a little forward as he exerted the catch-release action, the boat cleaving the water smoothly. He kept rowing, for how long he didn't know as he allowed his rage to suffuse him again. On and on he pushed and pulled the oars.

The water sprayed his face, so he was never sure whether he was crying or allowing the water drops to simply run down into his neck.

He wanted to marry Lucy. The ring he'd bought her was still in his pocket. He thought she loved him. Yet, if he thought about it, her letters had become infrequent, mostly just greetings and never about how she felt about him, like in the early days. In her last letters, Edward's name had cropped up once too often. How had he not seen the signs? Or read the signs? How could he have been such a prize fool for not realising what was happening?

His shoulders were beginning to ache, a lameness settling in his arms. When he looked about him, he realised he must have rowed almost three miles.

"Damn!" he muttered as he continued rowing, ignoring the cramps, the muscles unused to the rowing action. On a long curve he moved the boat in the opposite direction, back to where he started. He felt the old exhilaration as he picked up speed, rowing faster, push-pull, catch-release, straining against the pressure as the blades hit the water.

When at last he was too tired to do anything, he let the shell glide slowly back towards the boathouse. He had to let Lucy go. Lucy was his beginning, Lucy was his end. So he took the ring from his pocket and threw it in a wide arc to land with a tiny splash in the lake.

By the time he was back in the pick-up heading for Claremont, he felt slightly better. It was over for him. Lucy was no longer his. She belonged to another. There was something irrevocable about it.

"Mama," he said as he entered the house, "what's for supper?"

After that first day, Charlie left every day in the early morning and no one saw him for the entire day. No one asked where he went, what he did after dark, why he sneaked into the house in the early hours of the morning. He never said a word, except to greet his mother and Winonah, take an apple from the fruit bowl and leave.

One day he went down to the boathouse. He saw the boat already in the water, primed for two rowers. Edward was sitting in the front seat, hands on the oars, ready to row. Charlie glared at his brother.

He should hate Edward. For a while he did hate Edward.

Edward was waiting for him. He would wait as long as it took Charlie to make up his mind. The last month, Charlie's anger had been fed mainly by thinking of Lucy in the arms of her husband, a woman he couldn't have anymore. To be honest, he'd never had her, not in the biblical sense. Did that not count for something?

Why was he so angry still? Why?

Yet there was Edward, always calm, always so together, always the older brother wanting to protect even though he was hampered by callipers and crutches. Charlie knew that Edward's left leg remained strapped in the leg brace while a crutch lay safely along the length of the boat. Edward held his gaze. Charlie thought for a moment how alike they looked, like their father - jet black hair, dark eyes, dimples when they smiled. They didn't resemble their mother, though Charlie could swear that Edward and Winonah had inherited her nature - fiercely proud, kind, compassionate, _loving_.

Edward, he knew, was not going to budge. He would sit there all day, waiting for his brother to make a move. So Charles walked down to the water's edge, waded the first few metres and gracefully hauled himself into the boat, behind Edward. He grabbed the oars, felt the old, familiar thrill of rowing doubles with his brother. As if an invisible clap had sounded somewhere, two sets of oars began catching the water, releasing and finishing in unison. They kept up their rhythm, their oars cleaving the water, the boat moving smoothly like a swan unfurling her wings and allowing the breeze to carry her.

So they rowed in silence, the only sounds the occasional cries of birds overhead. Faster and faster, racing an invisible foe. Later his chest burned, the silent metronomic counting in his head forgotten as instinct alone took over. In front of him, Edward's shoulders and upper arms remained resolutely firm. Anyone looking at him from the water's edge would not have thought the rower in front to be physically disadvantaged.

"You love her," Charlie said at last.

"Yes. She is my life."

"You should have told me."

"We knew your anger. Much like when Dad got mad at us. We thought we were doing the right thing."

"I was always in the middle of something - maneuvers, combat training, covert reconnaissance missions."

"I know. I'm sorry that we hurt you, Charlie."

"Yeah," he said, "I'm sorry, too."

On the second last day, he ordered Winonah to get Lansing's Pontiac to drive him to the airport. He said goodbye to his mother, hugged for what seemed like forever.

"I hope you have wrestled your demons, son. Your father would have said - "

"Get on with your life, son. That's that," Charles said. He saw his mother's eyes widen.

"You sounded just like him!"

He smiled for the first time. "Forgive me, Mama. I've been a prize boor. Edward and Lucy... It was a hammer blow. I have accepted the reality."

For a moment he became morbid, hugging her again fiercely. When he released her, there were tears in his eyes.

"Take care of yourself," she said tearfully.

"Don't worry, Mama, I have yet to use the first of my nine lives!"

She gave him a playful slap on the arm. He wondered whether he'd be seeing them again soon. Training would not be on US soil this time, as the scuttlebutt had revealed. It would be even more difficult to maintain contact.

"Promise us you will write," Althea Miller said.

"I will try my best, Mama."

He kissed the top of her head, stood back and saluted his mother.

Writing letters would be sporadic at best and would reach their destinations perhaps months after they were sent. He wasn't very hopeful. There wasn't much, other than his mother and sister, that could keep him in the United States anymore. He'd lost Lucy and that was now a past chapter of his life.

He said goodbye to Winonah, holding her tightly to him as if he knew he was never going to see them again.

"Take care of Mama for me, okay?" he said as he gazed at her.

"You just come back home to us. We'll have another Pontiac waiting for you."

"Gee, thanks, little sister!"

He'd never bothered to visit Edward and his wife at their home again. He didn't say goodbye to his brother and tried to blank out the image of a loving Lucy in the arms of her husband.

On the last day of the month he reported for duty at Fort McCoy, where he received new orders, another commendation, and the promise of early promotion to captain.

On a cold day in October, Lucy Miller gave birth to a son. There was no doubt in the couple's minds that they would name their baby boy Charles Anson Miller.

END CHAPTER TWO

TBC CH 3


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER THREE

 **Paris - July 1940**

He dreamed again of home, of his village Kermor Ibra. Of times when he ran barefoot along the dusty streets rolling tubeless bicycle wheels with a stick, laughing into the bright sun, and he heard the laughter of his friends. When they reached the stream where they gathered every day after school and sometimes when they played truant, they stripped bare and dived into the rock pool. Their worry and their sorrow could wait yet another hour before they returned to their huts.

He saw his _grand-mère_ clucking over him and his brothers and sister, warning them about the sun that did not always heal, about their school slates they left at home and the stylus that lay abandoned next to the slates.

He saw again the classroom and the faces of his class mates in rapt attention as Teacher Ibou taught them everything ten year olds needed to know - reading, writing, making difficult sums look easy. He saw again his teacher's eyes on him, always, as if he alone could divine all questions and all answers. He even heard the old Ibou's, "You must learn, Lamine, for through learning, you will one day reach beyond yourself and make a difference in someone's life."

He had no idea what Teacher Ibou meant with those words and just smiled, knowing that of all the boys in his class, he was the best reader, the best writer and the best at knowing his sums.

Through the deep, dark fog of his dream, Lamine heard a sound - thin and strident, thumping - very close to him. Mortar! He uttered a cry of dismay, for he had seen those bombs blow his comrades to pieces!

Lamine rocked awake, shaking off the dreariness of his dream. He lay close to the wall of an old building. It smelled of old things - urine, wine, the odours of unwashed bodies that had lain there before him. The street didn't change, except that it was now darker, the lamps dim, too weak to expose his presence. When he looked around, he saw a cat scurrying away, realising the origin of the sound. It was no bomb. Relief swamped him and he closed his eyes and offered a prayer to the god of all things for letting him stay alive.

Awareness brought another reality - hunger and pain. He had not eaten properly in days. The wound to his leg had not healed. In fact, the pain had become unbearable, with pus oozing from the hole made by the bullet of a German rifle. He cried out softly, knowing he had to keep moving. He peered at the address on the dirty, bloodied piece of paper. _Rue du Lion_... He still had to crawl three blocks.

Resolutely he began crawling again; it was more a dragging of his body for his shattered leg was useless. Two more blocks... He faded in and out of consciousness, dragging his body over the roughened stonework of the pavement when he was awake. One more block. Third of five houses, the old woman had said.

He thought of home, but Kermor Ibra was so far, far away. "Lamine, when you leave this village, will you ever come back?" he heard his mother's voice. Once, he had been angry and told her he wished to leave Senegal forever. Now he remembered her words and felt a great regret that he had not honoured his mother. It was when reading the letter of old Teacher Ibou that he learned his mother had died of the great fever.

When he reached the last block, the third house, he saw the brown front door with the knocker that resembled the head of a lion. "It has the face of a lion. You cannot miss it," the old woman had said. He grimaced as he pulled himself up to reach the knocker. He lifted it once then dropped it with a clank against the wooden door.

"I'm here at last," he murmured as he sagged against the door.

Then images of the last skirmish tumbled into his consciousness. His regiment, his friends, brothers in arms, Lanviers bleeding as the might of the German artillery rolled mercilessly into the town. Retreating into the doorway of a house, he saw his comrades mowed down. German soldiers kicking down the doors of houses and firing indiscriminately at anyone and everyone. Then the sudden appearance of a German infantryman in front of him.

" _Du bist es nicht wert, auf dem Schlachtfeld zu fallen, Neger_! Not worthy of dying in battle!" the young soldier shouted, his lips curving derisively. Next thing Lamine felt a searing pain. He thought his leg had been ripped off, another bullet strafing his skull. Howling, he fired blindly. In a daze he saw the soldier going down, the helmet flying off his head. Lamine sank to the ground, lost consciousness, unaware of the carnage that followed.

When he regained consciousness he knew loneliness such as he had never felt before. The Germans rolled in, killed without pity, then rolled out again to sow carnage in the next town. Lamine remembered how once in Kermor Ibra a swarm of locusts had destroyed their crops. In the same way the Germans killed everything that moved. Lamine had crawled to the next house, found everyone dead. His comrades' bodies lay strewn across the town square. He had been left for dead; could any of them have survived? Then he crawled from house to house in the desperate hope of finding someone still alive.

He had last cried when his precious _grand-mère_ had died. Now he wept as he crawled from comrade to comrade, unable to identify even one of them. They were from villages as small as Kermor Ibra in their beloved Senegal. They had come to France's aid, for her colonies were in this war as much as she was. But France's people had been betrayed and were now occupied by the enemy.

Was this what his old teacher had meant that day he berated Lamine for not paying attention in class? How would he ever make a difference in anyone's life? How, when he was so broken, with little left to live for except to hope that he could be healed?

Why did the old woman guide him to this address? He had found her hidden under the bed of a house near the end of a road, close to where the village meandered into rural nothingness. Slowly, but surely, survivors of the massacre had begun to emerge. The old woman had tears in her eyes, but he saw how brave her heart was, for she helped him as best she could. He saw how she managed the survivors of the village.

"I cannot cure your leg. Go to this address, my son, for there you will receive help. I have known that man's mother. She was my friend..."

Brought back to the dark present, he waited for someone to come to the door. But Lamine lost consciousness again and was unaware of the front door opening or a concerned Doctor Joseph Blumenthal bending over him.

He opened his eyes slowly. There was light in the room that came from a window above the bed. He blinked a few times, trying to gain a sense of where he was. .

" _Bonjour_..."

Lamine gazed into a pair of very blue eyes. A child of about five stood next to him. She looked tiny, with golden brown hair nestling on her shoulder.

" _Bonjour_ ," he replied.

" _Je m'appelle Célestine_ ," she offered. " _Quelle est votre nom_?"

He stared at the ceiling, then looked around him. He lay on a bed that felt soft. There was a bedstand on which stood a carafe of water. He tried to remember things, like pulling the knocker with the shape of a lion's head and banging it against a door. Like the pain that raged like a fire through his body. Pain! He felt little pain now, almost gone, he realised.

He looked at the child again. She wanted to know his name, waiting patiently for him to answer her.

"My name..." He frowned as memory came flooding back of dark, unlit streets in Paris, of pain, of hunger. _"Mon nom est Lamine Bhoutayeb."_

"Lamine. I like your name."

"Thank you, Célestine." He had no idea whether he was at the right place. So he asked.

 _"Dites-moi, où êtes-vous?_

"Where am I?" he asked again, this time in English.

A figure stood in the open door of the room. A tall man, bearded, with dark eyes and a riot of dark hair smiled as he entered.

"I see you have met Célestine," said the man. Lamine noticed he carried a little metal dish. It smelled of a hospital, he realised.

"I was told to come here, although I did not know why," Lamine said, trying to raise himself on his elbow, suddenly agitated, afraid the old woman could have led him to the brink of death. Was this man going to kill him?

"Lie still," the stranger said as he shifted Lamine's sleeve and quickly rubbed his upper arm with cotton wool that smelled of antiseptic.

"What - ?"

"Please, you need this," said the man as he injected Lamine, then pushed him gently back against the pillow.

"His name is Lamine," offered Célestine.

"Forgive my daughter. She's a little forward. Forgive _me_ for not introducing myself. I am Doctor Joseph Blumenthal. Found you unconscious on my doorstep."

"A-A woman gave me your address. She said she knew your mother."

"Where were you injured?" Joseph asked, frowning.

"Lanviers."

"My mother was born there."

"The old woman was one of the few survivors. The Germans entered the homes of the villagers and killed everyone on sight."

Lamine closed his eyes and thought of how the young fresh-faced German soldier stood in front of him and shot him. He thought of how he'd reacted, shooting back. The helmet rolling, blood everywhere. He gave a cry of pain. Then he heard the doctor's voice.

"Célestine, you go to _Maman_ and tell her our patient has woken up. He'll need something to eat."

Célestine's retreating footsteps could be heard, moving further and further away until he couldn't hear her. He heard the scrape of a chair. When he opened his eyes, the doctor was sitting in the chair he'd pulled up. His eyes were kind, compassionate, without hate...

"Tell me..."

"I am black," Lamine said simply. "The Germans executed my regiment. They called us unworthy."

Joseph's hands stilled. Then he touched Lamine's shoulder gently.

"In the eyes of God," Joseph began, "every man is worthy. Remember that, Lamine - ?"

"Bhoutayeb. Lamine Bhoutayeb. I am from the 14th Senegalese Regiment. I come from Kerbor Ibra, a small village in the St Louis region."

Joseph nodded and smiled. "Well, Lamine Bhoutayeb of Kerbor Ibra, your head wound is superficial. The bullet just grazed your temple. I have cleaned, cut, stitched and dressed your leg wound. In addition I've put you on a course of antibiotics. A wonder drug called penicillin."

This time it was Lamine who frowned. He tried lifting his head, but the injection was beginning to take effect. He slumped against the pillow.

"Anything wrong, my good friend?"

"How long have I been here?" Lamine asked.

"Three days. It was touch and go. Your leg will heal and in time there will only be a scar. It was the poison in your blood that was the real evil demon."

"I have no money."

"I did not ask for any. If an old woman who survived a massacre in a small town could guide you to this house, then she knew there was much in you to be honoured. Stay."

"I have nowhere to go. My village in Senegal... There is nothing for me there."

"No brothers, sisters, family?"

"Died of the great sickness that ravaged the villages."

"My home is - "

Before Joseph could continue, another person entered and stood in the doorway. Joseph glanced back. Lamine gazed at the vision.

"Oh, here is Katrine. Katrine, please tell our guest he is welcome in our home."

She stepped forward and stopped right at his bedside. Then she placed her hand in a featherlight touch on his brow. Her eyes were blue, like Célestine's, and her hair the same golden brown, curling into her neck.

She smiled, and when she spoke, her voice sounded like the cool waterfall of the river near his village.

"You are very welcome in our home, Lamine."

That was the first time Lamine Bhoutayeb met Joseph and Katrine and their little daughter Célestine. He had landed on their doorstep, a broken man, beaten by the enemy and beaten by the circumstance of war - degradation, hunger, racial bigotry and an insatiable yearning for a life better than his past.

Joseph Blumenthal was a Jew, and while born and bred in France, by circumstance of race placed on an equal level with those born of another colour, or of another creed or orientation. Lumped by the enemy as unworthy, they were therefore all cattle to be despatched without mercy. With Joseph he felt a kinship that crossed all barriers.

He, Lamine, knew himself well enough to understand that somewhere there was a Higher Power who looked upon the earth and shook His head in dismay. Did not his old teacher in Kermor Ibra constantly tell them in class, "Remember, God is watching you"? Lamine had always wondered why old Ibou did not just say, "God is watching over you". In his darkest hours, crawling his way through the Paris streets when he couldn't walk anymore, Lamine had wondered whether this deity had forsaken him.

Yet, Joseph could inspire him and tell him no man was unworthy. It gave Lamine courage and a deep and abiding respect for the couple and their little girl.

They asked him to stay. They gave him shelter, a place at their table and a place in their hearts. Young Célestine gave her affection without reserve.

"Let me help you, anyway I can. Please, let me be of service," he had pleaded the first time he had woken from his dark dreams.

Katrine had looked at him with kindness, then said calmly, "We could use all the extra help."

He had not understood immediately what Katrine had meant that day, because the first time he saw her standing in the doorway of the room where he lay, he was almost overcome with awe.

Katrine was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His mother was beautiful, his sister was beautiful, the young nubile girls of his tribe were beautiful. But Katrine du Pléssis took his breath away. Perhaps it was also because he had instantly connected to the kindness that exuded from her, from every syllable that left her mouth, every expression in her face, every gesture of her expressive hands.

He remembered the old poem Teacher Ibou had taught them in primary school. " _Is she kind, as she's fair? For beauty lives with kindness_." That was Katrine.

Katrine and Joseph.

When he realised what they meant by needing all the extra help they could get, he had jumped in with both feet. For France, they all understood, needed saving. Young soldiers who recovered carried messages via bicycle tubes, Bibles, loaves of bread, notes to every other cell in every other city that required reconnaissance. Lamine became a vital member of the Du Pléssis-Blumenthal team who did their work in the dead of night in the cellar beneath the cellar of the house they occupied.

Young Célestine played the violin, Katrine rescued paintings and Joseph mended broken bones, torn flesh, healed hearts, heads and hundreds of fighters for France.

"One day, Lamine, when all this is over, you will be a resident of this country," Katrine told him one day when he'd run an errand to a neighbouring district. They did their work quietly, secretly, and painfully slowly, not enough that they could see any difference in what they were doing, but they managed to destroy munitions depots, slowing down the progress of the Germans. He loved his native Senegal, but France mended his bones, healed his heart and invited him to adopt her as his new homeland.

Gradually, over the next two years, Lamine began to feel at home, a member of the family, working with them in the underground movement.

Which was why it was such a surprise one day when Lucien Blériot came knocking on their door. He had been in the kitchen with Célestine when Katrine herself went to open the door. Blériot stood there with a smirk on his face. He had once been engaged to Katrine who dropped him because she fell in love with Joseph. Lamine had peeped through the lacy curtain that separated the kitchen from the front room.

"And why couldn't the university let me know? A letter direct from the chancellor would have sufficed," Katrine's voice sounded sad and filled with disappointment.

"Let it be known, Katrine, as magistrate of this district, I shall not shirk my duty to my country," Blériot had replied imperiously.

"Duty to your country, indeed, Lucien. Did you wash Vichy's feet today?"

Why, oh, why, did Katrine taunt this man, this turncoat, a traitor, this sell out to the Germans? Could she not understand the look in his eyes, and the way he glanced past her, to rest his eyes on Joseph who had come to stand behind her? Lucien Blériot had clicked his heels, saluted, and said, "You have made an enemy today."

"Leave my home, Lucien. Leave now."

When Blériot left, Katrine stood shaking, the letter fluttering to the floor. He had picked up the paper while Joseph had gathered her in his arms.

"I have been sacked by the university. I'm supposed to stay at home and raise my children from my kitchen..."

Katrine, although very young still, was already a top scientist at the University of Paris, a holder of the Curie Medal, teaching her beloved students. Teaching science was her life. How would she cope now, with no university, no students, no teaching?

Lamine had taken the letter and folded it neatly again. He had an immediate distrust of Lucien Blériot. He knew the man was up to something and that Blériot was suspicious of them. So later that night, when Célestine was asleep in bed, he thought to warn them.

"I think you must be careful. Monsieur Blériot means to do you harm."

"I have taken Katrine's name, as you know, though how long it will protect me..."

"It might not be enough, Joseph," he told the doctor.

Joseph had given a sigh, looked at Katrine again.

"I cannot leave my people, you must understand."

"I know. But _chéri_ , could we not send Célestine away? I have American friends who were visiting professors at the university. Célestine speaks English. Do you think I should write them?"

Joseph had nodded. He loved little Célestine with his whole heart. He couldn't bear to let her go away.

"Perhaps not now, _mon coeur_. We have so much work to do here. My uncle in Poland wishes work to continue here, to fight the occupation."

So they discussed sending Celestine away from everything she loved so dearly. He could understand why Joseph and Katrine hesitated, unable to bear the thought of being without their beloved child. Brave, talented Célestine who played the violin so beautifully at barely seven years old.

Lamine stayed with Joseph and Katrine for two years, protected Célestine, worked in the Resistance Movement 'til his fingers and heels bled and learned much about good wine, good books, art and music. Lucien Blériot had bothered them three or four more times after that first time Katrine lost her job at the university, and every time he left, their concern grew deeper and deeper. Katrine had spoken of going to the small town of St. Clair, but their work in Paris was too deeply entrenched for them to leave. Her uncle who owned a tavern there was too old to take care of Célestine. He was Katrine's great uncle really, and not capable of handling a boisterous child. Besides, it was so hard to send her away...

In the summer of 1942 their bubble burst.

 **The outskirts of Paris - the summer of 1942**

Katrine du Pléssis thought she was the luckiest woman in France. She'd married a man she loved with her whole heart, she had an adorable little daughter who played the violin and who could speak passable English, and they had made a new friend.

After her initial disappointment that the University of Paris had fired her, she soon realised that it was perhaps, all things considered, a blessing in disguise. Her doctorate in physics would always be recognised and when the war was over, which she hoped would be soon, she could get back to her experiments, her students and teaching.

Right now their primary business was working in secret to despatch intelligence to other cells either in the city or outlying towns and to rescue artworks. They hoped to contain the advance of German troops or at least, cause as much turmoil and trouble as they could. A consignment lost here, or valuable medical supplies stolen there, successfully hiding parachutists of the British 1st Airborne Division, meant her work in the Resistance had become vital.

It was hard to even think of letting Célestine go to live in the United States to keep her safe. French citizens were opting to flee France and settle elsewhere, many moving to the free southern regions. She thought them cowards for leaving others to resist the Occupation. Yet, how could she blame them? She too, wanted what was best for her daughter, even if it meant sending her away to friends in another country.

Célestine. Her light. Her life. At almost seven years old, the child was already a prodigious violin player, a talent she inherited from her father. Joseph was an accomplished pianist and violinist himself.

Célestine looked mostly like her, Katrine thought with some pride. They had the same colour hair and eyes. Her daughter could, when stubborn, stand with her hands on her hips, just like she, Katrine, sometimes did.

The only fly in the ointment of their joy was her former fiancé, Lucien Blériot of their magisterial district. When she fell in love with Joseph Blumenthal, breaking her engagement to Lucien had been inevitable. Now he harrassed them from time to time, mainly, Katrine suspected, to see if she still loved Joseph and wouldn't she be prepared to give him up. "After all, Katrine, you used to belong to me. Why did you choose him?" was what he always declared whenever he pestered them. Yet, they'd heard that Lucien had married before France fell to the Germans; they even heard that he'd fathered two children. Katrine always thought him to be without conscience. She was glad that she never married him.

The arrival of Lamine Bhoutayeb literally on their doorstep brought them all welcome relief. They could, for a few days at least, focus solely on the dangerously sick man who lay close to death yet had managed to ring the heavy knocker on their front door before collapsing in a heap.

He had been unconscious, running a perilously high fever. Almost half of his thigh muscle was blown away. Joseph had cut, injected, patched and brought down the fiery fever which kept the unfortunate man raging in a delirium for three days.

And she'd kept wondering at the deep, dark, sad tones of his murmurings, the longing for a time, a place that was once part of his life. Several regiments of Senegal had been mobilised in France, hundreds of young fighters ripped from their villages in their homeland to fight the cause of another citizen's country. As colonial master, was France exemplary? She always wondered about that when their government surrendered to Germany.

Her heart bled for lonely Lamine, the only survivor of his regiment. She'd heard through the underground how the Germans took no Senegalese soldiers prisoner. They simply executed them.

Many times they allowed Célestine to dab Lamine's forehead with a damp cloth, for she too, was affected by the patient's sadness. Katrine wondered if Lamine could hear the pieces, especially the Mozart Lullaby Célestine played while he lay in a delirium, or remembered them afterwards.

"It will take away his sadness, _Maman_ ," Célestine would say before continuing to play.

And somehow, the sadness lessened, the painful murmuring decreased, although Katrine knew in her heart that it didn't go away.

Yes, she sighed, they made a good friend when Lamine tumbled into their lives. He was a willing helper with an eager brain wanting to learn as much as he could.

"I wish to play a part in the deliverance of this country, Katrine," he'd said one evening when they were listening to a recording of piano music.

Lamine had been listening with rapt attention, a question in his eyes when he looked at them.

"Francis Poulenc," Joseph offered kindly. "A true son of France."

After that they'd let him choose from their varied selections to play on their old phonograph. Once, he'd selected something, and Katrine frowned.

"That's very intense," she'd said. "You like Mahler?"

"I like the trumpet sounds."

So Lamine developed a love for things they also loved. It was honest, unvarnished enjoyment through the eyes of a young man from a small village in Senegal who had probably never listened to European music, music made by great masters of the piano - Chopin, Debussy, Ravel...

Lamine was a vital member of their group, but in their home, he was their trusted friend. He learned everything and he learned fast. He read as much as he could, working his way voraciously through through Zola, Dumas, Balzac, De Maupassant, and Jules Verne. He liked Jules Verne best, it seemed.

"I can imagine people going to the moon one day!" he exclaimed excitedly one day after finishing one of the Verne novels.

They had nodded sagely. She taught him as much as she could about art, music, about paintings of the great impressionists and post impressionists. He liked Toulouse Lautrec, she liked Matisse and Joseph didn't much like art.

"Lamine," she told him one day, "if ever the situation should arise, I want you to be the custodian of our art collection. I have heard through Joseph how the Germans are confiscating valuable collections from Jewish households in Germany and Poland and here, in France."

"Katrine, France is my home now. I will do everything I can to assist."

And so they visited great homes around the city, and on some of the estates, to convince the owners to part with their most valuable paintings for safekeeping.

If the Germans ever found out where they were hidden...

"Ready?" Katrine asked as she adjusted the black beret on her head.

"As I will ever be, Katrine."

Katrine gave a little sigh. "Joseph is home today. He's been coughing a lot lately."

"Physicians can heal themselves, can they?"

"I don't think so. Joseph is horrid at self-medicating. Célestine will watch over him. She has a lesson with Maestro Sargozy later."

"I do not like to leave them."

"Don't worry so, Lamine. We'll be back by afternoon, if not earlier."

They'd said goodbye to Joseph and Célestine who remained inside the house. Now they got into Katrine and Joseph's old Peugeot and started the engine which purred smoothly. Katrine gave Lamine a grateful look. He'd performed wonders on the sputtering engine.

"First we visit the Evremondes at their home outside the city. They have a Cezanne, a Renoir and a Monet they've asked us to take for safekeeping."

"Ah, I remember the Morse code message two weeks ago," Lamine said.

"Yes. We take a little used back road to the Languedoc Estate. The Germans are occupying the chateau, while the owners are living in one of the outbuildings."

"That is sad," Lamine said, "to be thrown out of your own home..."

"Yes. Now, what is our business there?"

"Be very careful?"

"That too."

Lamine smiled as he cast her a glance. "We sneak the paintings onto the Languedoc Estate, famous for their table wines."

"I'll be speaking to my good friend Monsieur Charpentier to part with a few bottles of his most excellent vintage."

"Ah, the rest, as they say, is the history we will be making!"

"Good. We will pass only one roadblock on the way to the Evremondes. They can strip poor Clotilde - "

"Clotilde?"

"My car, Lamine, is a girl. Don't you forget it!" she huffed as they left Paris.

The vehicle chugged along, passing smaller suburbs. People walking by looked suspiciously at them - old men with slouch hats, women wearing scarves, young mothers carrying their babies on their arms. They all looked tense, Katrine thought, with the ever present Germans round every corner, their appearance invoking fear in every heart. That was what she thought. The past two years she'd wanted to spit at every soldier. She'd wanted to hiss at the Vichy traitors and turncoats, at Lucien the Vichy lackey who still couldn't leave her alone. Sighing, she focused on Clotilde as they approached the roadblock.

Lamine stiffened in the passenger seat when they saw the Germans squaring their shoulders at the approaching Peugeot. Katrine took a deep breath. Despite the menial task of manning a roadblock, the soldiers looked imperious. The one closest to them had startling blue eyes, but his face remained impassive as he sauntered to the driver's side of the vehicle.

"Have courage, Lamine," Katrine whispered. "They hate their job..."

The soldier sneered as he stared at her and then at Lamine. He gestured lazily for the other soldiers to approach them.

"Get out, you two."

When they scrambled out, the German leered at her, then barked orders at the others. "Search them and the vehicle."

Katrine endured the humiliating touch of the soldier's hands on her body, while they stripped Lamine completely before they told him to dress again.

There followed a thorough search of the vehicle. One soldier slid underneath to search for anything suspicious. In the glove compartment they found a pair of gloves which they turned inside out and found nothing.

Twenty minutes later the commanding officer waved them on their way again. They were clear. Lamine expelled his breath in a long hiss. Katrine sighed with relief. They knew the drill. Never ever travel with papers lying around in the car, or anything that might be construed by the enemy as intelligence.

"We're clear," Katrine whispered.

Three miles south of the roadblock they reached the house of M. and Mme. Evremonde. Their home had not been occupied by the enemy, but they were nervous that it could happen soon. Before that occurred they needed to have some of their most treasured artworks protected. They were old, had seen France through the Great War, lost two sons and a daughter. They didn't trust the galleries and art museums. They'd heard how paintings went missing.

Katrine and Lamine were warmly welcomed by the old man who invited them inside.

"You requested that we take three of your art works, Monsieur Evremonde," Katrine said in a business-like tone.

"That is so, Mme. Du Pléssis. We have two other works you must also take with you. We have faith that our paintings will be safe with you."

"Thank you."

An hour later they had a Cezanne, a Renoir, a Monet, and two works by other painters new to Katrine on the rear seat of the car. A tearful Mme. Evremonde invited them for tea, but they declined. Katrine and Lamine waved goodbye. Lamine kept looking back until he couldn't see them anymore.

They travelled north from the Evremonde home in a long roundabout circle on a little used gravel road towards Languedoc Estate. Katrine's heart thudded wildly as she pondered on the next part of the plan. It was thrilling and nail-biting outwitting the Germans. She stole a quick glance at Lamine.

"Are you alright?"

"I am only now breathing evenly, Katrine. Those Germans gave me the creeps."

"Well, we're clear. Our organisation's done its work. The chateau is occupied by senior SS officers as their base for this region. They keep mainly to the house, are rarely seen outside except for one who is a chain-smoker. He is always seen pacing the paths in front of the chateau. According to Gaston, the servant, they occupy themselves mainly studying maps, plotting their strategies, discussing war plans and whoring our French girls in the great rooms of the house," Katrine said on a bitter note. "They never walk through the vineyards yet they consume estate wine as if it belonged to them. Don't worry. This part of our job gets interesting."

"When _you_ say interesting, _I_ get worried."

"Then don't!"

Lamine looked around him. This area was deserted so Katrine and the others had assured him. They had just crossed a wooden bridge and stopped about a hundreds yards further, where he got out of the car. Katrine had given him a long, urgent look.

"Be careful. Be safe," she'd said before continuing towards the farm, the main entrance right opposite of where she'd dropped him.

He stood next to the lavender bush that was his first marker after Katrine let him out.

 _"The lavender bush flowers this time of the year. It's instantly recognisable. You cannot miss it. From that point you start counting your steps..."_

Filled with the importance of his task, he walked down the embankment toward the dark stream that coursed its way on the north flank of the estate. The area was lush with trees and brush and tall grass.

Lamine closed his eyes. He had memorised every stage of his assignment. It had been necessary, knowing the Germans would be searching their vehicle at the roadblock. No instructions were written down; they were in his head.

He began counting. Fifteen steps along the river's edge, careful not to overbalance and get wet. Then he stopped and did a left turn, looking directly at a thick, heavy overgrown bush and shrubs as green as he remembered from his childhood days at the river in his village. He shifted the weight on his back. The paintings were stacked together, each with a separating hessian-like fabric, all five covered first with hessian, then a hardy plastic sheeting which was tied with string. He locked his arms through the string, carrying the paintings like a great backpack. Lamine looked down and behind him.

"Fifteen paces, no boot prints," he murmured as he turned to face the green wall again. He used his hands to prise the hardy branches apart, dug in a little further. Then he saw it, exactly as he'd been told he would. He touched the embankment wall, a vertical drop of easily three or four yards. Soil had turned hard by the root systems of the undergrowth as well as the surrounding trees. At the point he was now standing it was impossible to be seen from any point on the dirt road. Against the wall he scraped away the soil, reaching a hard surface.

Lamine pushed against the surface. A portion - five feet by three feet - opened inwards. Crouching, he stepped inside the dark tunnel. When he pushed the door closed, only a sliver of light was left. From the outside no one would notice anything.

Then he turned, standing against the door.

 _Bend down to your left and take the torch from the box on the ground. There are cloths with which to clean your boots when you return._

Lamine smiled as he held the torch in his hand. They really thought of everything.

 _The Germans know only about bunker 1 and bunker 2. There are cases of estate wine in those bunkers Their access is direct from the basement of the main house. You go to bunker 3._

As if Katrine was speaking to him right there, he allowed her words to guide him.

 _Count from the door thirty paces. Remember, they are your paces that we've measured here at home._

He shone the torch into the depths of the tunnel. It veered slightly downwards, then levelled again. It was dank and humid.

 _You are five yards beneath the surface of the vineyards of Languedoc._

He looked at the roof of the tunnel, expecting roots of the vines to protrude. Lamine moved forward, counting his steps. Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen... The tunnel beams looked solid to him. There was no danger of collapse. Twenty five...twenty six...

 _There is no tunnel system from any of the buildings of Languedoc Estate that leads to Bunker 3. Now you will reach an upright beam. In the space between the beam and the wall hangs a small lantern. It cannot be seen normally from your position._

Lamine found the lantern. It was small, and he would have missed it had he not known about it.

 _Press the nook behind the lantern._

When he pressed the nook, a door squeaked as it opened to the inside.

 _Only close the door when you leave that way. You are now in the main tunnel that will lead you to bunker 3. Walk one hundred paces._

He was breathing heavily by this time.

 _Take very short breaths, Lamine. You will tire yourself so conserve oxygen. There is very little of it in the main tunnel, but that will soon be rectified._

He coughed a few times, almost missing his counting. When he'd reached hundred paces, he was so dazed he could hardly walk, the package on his back becoming increasingly heavy. He perspired profusely, rubbing his eyes as the salty droplets dripped into them. He began heaving, knowing he would throw up if he didn't curb himself.

 _Have courage, Lamine,_ he heard Katrine's voice again.

 _Now turn left again. You have reached the final access to bunker 3. Walk ten paces. You will see a brick wall. Just push against the wall. It will give way. You are now in bunker three, built by the Charpentier family in the mid nineteenth century._

He stood inside the bunker, a massive concrete structure, he realised with awe. And against its walls were stacked the cultural legacy of France. Famous paintings and works by lesser known painters. He saw what he thought to be sculptures and also paintings covered with cloth. He knew what he had to do now. Finally releasing the pack, he untied it and carefully removed the paintings one by one. He looked at the Monet, struck once again by the sun resting on the water in the early smoky morning. On the back of each frame was written the names of the owners in small letters. Lamine decided to stack the Evremonde's art works together against the right wall. A large white linen canvas cloth was thrown over the paintings. The cloth fibre was breathable, allowing for air but not letting in dust.

He also realised he could breathe, that a waft of air came from somewhere...

 _You will also find breathing easier now. There is a vent that goes right up to the surface, hidden under the leaves of a grapevine. The artworks need to keep dry and not rot._

"You really have thought of everything," Lamine muttered as he took the hessian and canvas, rolled it and tied it with the same string. The covering was placed neatly in a corner, where a box stood containing cloths that covered other art works brought through the tunnel into the bunker.

Taking a deep breath, Lamine retraced his steps, making sure he closed everything as he left. By the time he reached the river, he was exhausted, yet excited that they could once again save paintings before the enemy confiscated them. He blinked several times in the bright sunlight, a welcome relief from the darkness. Still, he remained wary, ever on the lookout for any suspicious movement. By his calculation, he had been gone an hour. Katrine could be expected to reach the wood bridge within minutes if she was not held up. He'd made sure his boots were cleaned of mud, that his clothing was still clean.

He heard the sound of a vehicle in the distance, dived under the bridge, making sure he didn't get wet. They'd have to pass the roadblock again. He gave a giant sigh of relief when the vehicle stopped directly above him and Katrine shouted, " _Vous pouvez sortir maintenant, Lamine_!"

She was glad to get away from Languedoc. The Charpentiers had been friendly but subdued and even a little sad when she left. She thought they didn't want her to go.

They'd given her two cases of selected Chateau Languedoc wines. The Charpentiers lived in the staff cottage behind their beautiful chateau, unable to move about much in the main house. It was full of SS officers and they had to request the keys to their own cellars in order to get a few bottles for Katrine.

"Is this paid for?" Herr Kommandant Leopold Kruger had asked.

The couple had been effusive in his presence. Katrine had paid for the wine already, they told him and could they please allow Monsieur Charpentier access to the cellar.

Katrine shuddered again as she thought of the German Kommandant who made a sudden appearance in the cottage. He had given her a speculative look before speaking to the old gentleman. She'd stepped forward - perhaps just one step - and stood in front of the SS officer, meeting his haughty gaze. He had shocking blue eyes.

"The estates wines are excellent, Herr Kommandant Kruger," she gushed, "as I'm sure you already know. My uncle owns a tavern further south, and I'd like to present some of the Languedoc wines to him."

After a long pause, Kruger nodded, clicked his heels and left the cottage.

They sighed with relief when the officer had gone, Mme. Charpentier sagging gratefully into a chair. Katrine saw her tears and wanted to hug the old woman.

"One day soon, I hope, this will be over, and you can enjoy your vineyards again."

"Our grandson will inherit the estate one day. He won three gold medals at the Berlin Olympics."

Katrine had frowned. Joseph would probably know the grandson, so she nodded, wondering a little where the absent Charpentier grandson was. Gone underground perhaps, working in another resistance cell like so many young Frenchmen and women.

By the time she left a waving M. and Mme Charpientier, she had only ten minutes to get to the wood bridge again. Lamine had been thoroughly primed for his mission. She had no doubt he had carried it out successfully.

She reached the wood bridge with a minute to spare. Lamine was hiding as he'd been instructed.

She stopped on the bridge, leaned out the open window and called, "You can come out now, Lamine!"

She was glad to see him, his dark face ablaze with excitement.

"It is done, Katrine. The paintings are safe!"

"Did you know," she started, smiling back at him as the Peugeot began moving again, "that bunker number three is not on any of the floor plans of the Languedoc buildings?"

"I know now. A good thing it is too. The Germans would inspect the first two bunkers, finding only estate wines and survival essentials there."

"Correct. Now for the roadblock again."

About ten minutes later, they passed onto the gravel road heading for the roadblock. They could see movement in the distance and when they slowed down, several Germans swooped on the car.

Once again they were told to get out, Katrine frisked by a German whose hands caressed her breasts. She felt like throwing up, the bile rising as his hands went over her body. Lamine was simply ordered to strip, and then ordered to get dressed again.

" _Ah, was haben wir denn da?_ _"_ one German soldier exclaimed as he opened the door to the back seat of the Peugeot and saw the wine. "Where did you get this wine?"

"From the Languedoc Estate. It is for my uncle," Katrine said as she straightened the skirt of her dress and walked back to the car. Lamine was also dressed by now.

"We are sure your uncle of the tavern would not mind donating some of this excellent vintage to very grateful officers of the regiment, would he?"

"No, I guess he would not," Katrine answered as they removed one full case, and several bottles from the second case and simply walked off to their little kiosk with it.

" _So, jetzt hau ab!_ _"_ they shouted.

The little German she understood basically told them to get lost.

"Thank you, we'll be off immediately," Katrine repeated as she started the car and began driving. Half a mile further on she slowed down and looked at Lamine, who looked at her. A second later they burst out laughing so hard that Katrine stopped the vehicle.

Between fits of laughter, Katrine said, "We knew they'd expect us to come back that way with something."

"Knowing," Lamine said, laughing, "they'd be very happy to take the wine."

"It was Languedoc's best wines! Pinot noir, pinot blanc, sauvignon blanc, Cabernet Sauvignon... Damn! They cannot appreciate what they just stole. Hope they don't guzzle the precious liquid!"

"Clever ploy. We can fool them every time. There is enough space for twenty or more paintings, Katrine."

"Not to worry, that bunker will be put to good use. We can drive a different route next time."

"Now I cannot wait to get home and berate Joseph for not taking medicine to cure his cough!" Lamine exclaimed.

"I wish you good luck with that. He didn't listen to me!" Katrine complained.

They became quiet in the car and drove until they reached the city again. She would be in time to take Célestine for her violin lesson with Maestro Sargozy, while Joseph prepared for visits to the hospital, sick as he was. Lamine usually accompanied Joseph to the hospital when he had very little to do, especially after a mission.

She was still pondering on sending Célestine away to the American friends she had made when they visited university. She had written them, a tentative request to offer a home to their daughter. But the more she and Joseph talked about it, the less inclined they felt sending Célestine away. But Occupied France was becoming more and more fraught with unsettling events. She had no relatives in the south of France except her great-uncle who was too old to take care of a boisterous almost seven year old little girl.

"Perhaps," Lamine's voice broke into her thoughts as if he could read them, "we should all move to the south where your uncle lives."

"Perhaps. Our work here is not done."

"There are others. They would be happy to complete your assignments. You can work from your uncle's tavern..."

"Maybe," Katrine said as the car turned into the _Rue du Lion_ where they lived.

"What is that in the distance, near our house?" Lamine asked softly, his voice suddenly trembling.

"A truck," Katrine replied, "and in - in - "

"- front of our house!"

They were two blocks away, and all they could see were German soldiers, the big truck and Lucien Blériot standing at the rear. Katrine and Lamine were out before the car had barely stopped.

Then she stopped dead a few yards from the truck. Katrine turned ice cold.

This could not be happening, but it was happening. Like disbelief that a beloved had died, not wanting reality to take over. A stinging sensation in her ears that seemed to daze her. All words stalled in her brain, turning into a miasma through which any coherent utterance became impossible. Katrine knew only that she felt her world turning dark.

She saw Joseph and Célestine led away, Joseph manhandled roughly over the gate of the truck while Célestine was hauled by a German and thrown into the back. Joseph turned and saw her. His face was a bloody mess. He tried to reach for her.

"Katrine! Katrine! For the love of God, save yourself! Save yourself!"

The next moment a soldier swung his rifle and struck Joseph, the force of it flinging him back into the truck.

" _Maman! Maman! Maman_!" Célestine cried, arms outstretched. She too was viciously pushed into the back, where other faces looked at her with a strange kind of helplessness and an emptiness in their eyes.

Only then Katrine found her voice. She moved her feet and rushed forward, unaware of the tears that flew from her face as she ran.

"Joseph! Joseph! Célestine, my baby!"

The next moment, Lucien Blériot blocked her way, pushing her viciously back.

"Why? Why are you doing this to us? Why?" she pleaded with him.

"They are Jews!"

Katrine lunged at Lucien, her hands striking his chest.

" _Batard_! You piece of Vichy filth!"

The next moment Blériot raised the butt of his rifle and struck her across the face.

Lamine Bhoutayeb watched helplessly as Katrine collapsed in a heap and the truck sped off into the distance.

END CHAPTER THREE


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FOUR

 **Reykjavik , Iceland: US ARMY Base Command - August 1943**

Captain Charles Miller slapped his hands together and blew on them. He could swear he was breathing tiny icicles. It was bitingly cold and Sjolsjvik Ridge lay covered with snow that had fallen throughout the night. The early morning sun was cocooned in snow clouds that gave the entire horizon an eerie, haunting atmosphere. It reminded him of those dreadfully cold mornings when his dad had taken him and Edward rowing on Lake St. Clair before school. They'd shivered getting into the shells and walked like ice puppets when they got out. He couldn't get used to the extreme weather with blizzards every few days.

The men though appeared upbeat. Their voices rose above the wind and sounded full of enthusiasm and energy. His terrible trio - Longman, Compton and Linklater - looked so cheerful he could strangle them just for being so perky in the early morning before breakfast. Didn't they know it was - 5C? If it weren't that they were training to handle grenades and mortars, he'd wear his gloves.

Boxes of equipment - radios, fuses, rifles, machine guns, grenades and mortars - were stacked around the base of the ridge, which rose at a very gradual incline to the top. Robert Davis seemed to have the men under control, though one or two still thought they were playing war games in their backyards. Private Rheddam Compton couldn't keep his hands off anything he wasn't supposed to touch, and Eugene Linklater's voice could be heard above everybody else's, screaming no doubt at Compton who was his best friend, his accident prone best friend. What was he doing in Iceland anyway? Already Compton had to be fished out of a river near Graves Point.

Charlie shook his head as he thought about that incident. They'd been on maneuvers in the Akyrukii Basin on the northwest side of the island. Wading with heavy backpacks through icy waters was an exercise in determination, skill, endurance and thinking on your feet. Just fifteen men of the company, youngsters barely nineteen years old, fresh from high school graduation or just school dropouts.

He could swear the good Lord had assigned Rheddam Compton expressly to irritate the devil out of him. The river was waist deep, at the narrowest section, a distance of only twenty metres. The men had waded in, each with a pack on his head, crossing the narrow point in single file.

He stood on the bank, waiting to enter last, while Davis led the group across. Then suddenly there was a little commotion as two men went down. Longman's head popped up instantly. The other was Compton.

"Captain! I think I broke my ankle!"

He'd seen the stumble and thought the soldier must have tripped over a rock. Next moment Compton went down in ice cold water, the heavy pack aggravating matters as he remained submerged for at least a few seconds. Charlie had dived in and swum towards the struggling private. Then he managed to pull him back to shore, both of them shivering violently. He could even hear Compton's teeth chattering. After about half an hour they had changed into some dry clothing, carefully handed to them by Corporal Aidan Jennings who was in charges of stores.

Then he grabbed Compton by his shirt. "You damned fool!" he shouted in the hapless private's ears after they were dry. "What if you were in a real battle and you got stuck in the middle of a stream or road?"

Compton closed his eyes and Charlie shook him roughly.

"Look at me, Compton!"

"I'll try, Captain. Don't kill me, Captain!"

"If I don't kill you, you'll have a German bullet in your skull!"

"Sorry, Captain. I'll be more careful!"

Charlie had cursed that day. They'd assigned Compton, Linklater, Baxter and Johannes Elsevier to the 5th Infantry. He had been told by Colonel Ordison they were quick-thinking, smart, creative. He had yet to see Compton doing all three.

"Compton, listen, I need my men to think on their feet. You lost your goddam balance. It could mean the difference between life and death! Stay on your feet and you'll stay alive, get that?"

"Aye, sir, Captain, sir!"

Now Charlie looked at the men as they handled rifles and mortars, monitoring their swift action and reaction. They were getting very good. Francis Longman could shoot a can off a ledge a hundred metres away. He was farm stock, had handled rifles from a young age. Compton, when he was good, was very good. Like Longman, he handled the M1 Garand rifle like an old pro. And why not? He came from the same farming stock as Longman. But Compton seemed to look for accidents.

Charles trusted his second-in-command Robert Davis to oversee the maneuvers. So far so good. He blew once again on his hands and watched the steam frost up.

Then suddenly he heard Davis shout. Instantly on the alert, he rushed towards the group. There stood Compton holding a hand grenade.

"Throw the damned thing!" Shakes Cruikshank screamed, his voice filled with fear. "Throw it, goddammit, Beanpole!"

"I can't! Help!"

When Charlie reached him, Compton stood with fists against his chest, the grenade - a live fire - in his right hand, while... Then Miller turned ice cold. His index finger was stuck in the pin, while the grenade was held firmly in his right hand. He saw the fear in the young man's eyes, saw the other infantrymen stand too close to them.

"Stay back!" he ordered. "Davis, get the medics. We have an emergency."

"Aye, sir!"

"Stand completely still, Compton," Charlie said coolly. "Try not to shake so much..."

"T-Trying to, Captain. The pin jammed round my finger. I tried to dislodge it, but it jammed!"

"Okay, okay. Keep your hand on that spoon or we're both dead."

Then Charlie spooned himself behind Compton, who was built like a reed. He brought his arms around and gripped Compton's hand, covering the index finger to yank the pin, twist and pull it.

Hadn't the fool listened to the gunnery sergeant? The moment was tense as Charlie felt the spring-loaded spoon buck against Compton's right thumb the moment he pulled the pin. "Now drop your left hand. Don't worry about the pin now. Slowly. Don't look at the grenade."

When Compton complied, Charlie carefully shifted his right thumb under Compton's finger, over the spoon of the grenade. He slowly prised Compton's fingers away from the grenade. The spoon would ignite the fuse at the top once he released it. Then they had five seconds... . He held his breath.

"Easy now..."

Charlie's thumb slipped under Compton's, making sure he kept up the pressure on the spoon against the pineapple body of the grenade.

"Move away, Compton," Charlie ordered as he held the grenade against his chest. "Everyone, take cover! Now!"

Then he hurled the grenade as far as he could up the incline, into a little ditch he'd spotted earlier. The offending bomb wouldn't roll down on them. He fell down and covered his head at the same time. Seconds later the grenade exploded.

Lieutenant Robert S. Davis watched the incident, knowing that Captain Miller had everything under control. But right now Miller was an angry man, and the moment everyone stood up and dusted the snow off their uniforms, Miller went for Compton.

Even as the sun rose magnificently over Iceland, the blaze in Captain Miller's eyes could well have outshone the morning aura. He stopped Linklater and Longman from intervening as the two rushed forward to their comrade's aid.

"Don't," he ordered. "This I've got to see."

"Why do you think we're here next to you, Lieutenant? We've got the best seats in the house!" Linklater crowed. "Damn, I wished for a cigarette right now," Linklater complained.

Captain Miller yanked Compton roughly towards him. He pulled his arm back and landed a heavy left-handed punch. Compton went down like a sack of potatoes.

"I didn't mean it, Captain! I swear!"

Miller jerked Compton to his feet, held him close and began to spew venom.

"You could have had your whole company killed! What were you thinking? Didn't Sergeant Baxter train you the proper way?"

Another smack against Compton's head. The poor soldier yelped in pain. But Captain Miller wasn't finished. He smacked Compton again.

"What in the name of hell were you thinking yanking the pin with your index finger? You know it's always your middle finger, idiot! This is not a game, understand?"

"Understand, Captain, sir! I fully understand. I should use my middle finger, sir!"

Davis had a vision of Compton raising his middle finger and indicating Miller could go to hell anyway.

"Gawd!" Linklater exclaimed. "I pray never to get on the wrong side of the captain, Lieutenant!"

"Make sure you never do. But let me tell you, Captain Miller is just a little angry right now."

"A little, you say?"

Robert was loath to reveal anymore than what he himself knew. But since their return to Fort McCoy in '40, Captain Miller had not been the same man. Perhaps that was a wrong assessment. Miller was the same man, but since his return to the regiment, had become more determined, more driven, more disciplined, more everything! What was he? everyone wondered.

Longman called him the perfect soldier. "All heart with no heart" and then asked himself, "Now what kind of a fool paradox is that?"

Now the soldiers stood even more in awe of Captain Charles Anson Miller, promoted while on maneuvers in Fort McCoy in 1940.

The medics arrived and quickly saw to it that Miller's grazed hand was tended and Compton got some raw steak over his right eye.

That afternoon Robert wanted to talk to Compton about the risks he was taking and invoking the ire of the captain. He finally spotted the infantryman in the mess hall kitchen of all places. The man was one of the finest shots in the regiment, what was he doing there, anyway?

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked the soldier.

Compton glanced up at him. He looked morose, well and truly chastised.

"What does it look like, Lieutenant? I'm peeling potatoes!"

"Who ordered this? You're supposed to be at target practice."

"Who do you think? I have thick fingers, didn't you know? Not thick enough to peel goddam potatoes.

Davis stifled his laughter. Compton had it coming. It was due punishment for putting them all in danger.

That moment Linklater and Cruikshank passed by. Linklater's cigarette fell out of his mouth and he began coughing and laughing at once. Cruikshank managed to hold his cigarette, dangling while he laughed.

"What are you looking at?"

They ribbed poor Compton mercilessly, slapping him with their garrison caps.

"That's what you get for putting our lives in danger, moron!"

"Hey, Compton, the captain used the second of his nine lives today on you. Again!"

"Are you his favourite?"

And so it went on. Beanpole Compton was clearly being punished by Captain Miller. Compton would be on mess hall detail for days until Miller's mood changed. He'd spoken to Compton about being more careful in future. The lad had potential but he was young and sometimes impetuous.

Sighing, Robert left for the living quarters of the regiment, Nissen Hut 15, nicknamed _Washington_. He had the sudden urge to write to Lynne and tell her how much he missed her and the boys.

Captain Charles Miller was tired and cold. Even sitting near the old kerosene heater in the middle of the _Washington_ didn't help much. It was enough, though. For once he was less tired than he had been on other days. But the cold had seeped into his bones and he thawed slowly, sighing with relief when he felt warm enough to return to his bunk.

Compton, called Beanpole because he was so tall and thin, had done it again, changing his whole mood for the day. Iceland was no easy base, Miller thought absently, but then he liked it that way. The more severe the conditions, the better test of their survival skills. Winter was coming in Iceland; if today's conditions were considered a lovely summer's day, he had no doubt what a cold winter's day would be like.

His living area was partitioned off by a wooden panel, the perks of captaincy in the regiments. Out on the battlefields they'd all be bivouacking together, whatever the rank of the soldier. Right now he wanted to relax. The evenings were long since their days started at 04h30. Most of the men had their own ways of entertaining themselves. Baxter played guitar, Wainwright had a really good tenor voice and sang like Caruso, Corporal Delaney played bridge and spent the evenings teaching others the skill and Howard Kisting wrote poetry. Robert Davis couldn't stop drawing airplanes and space vessels.

He read books and letters.

Under his pillow he removed the latest batch of letters from home. This afternoon when mail had arrived at the base, he'd quickly scanned the first letters. Now he lay on his bunk and opened Edward's letter again.

 _Dear Charles_

 _I have accepted a Harvard doctoral scholarship. Lucy, little Charlie and I have relocated to Boston where I'll be continuing my studies and teaching undergraduate students in international affairs. We didn't want to leave Mama, but she is getting much better, thanks to Doctor Wachinski. Seems the good doctor has taken a liking to Mama. Winonah, though, tells me Mama fights the attraction all the way. Dad was a hard man, as you know, but she loved him. I don't blame her for remaining loyal even after Dad died._

 _Lucy sends you her love. She is very happy here in Boston._

Charles stopped reading and lay the open letter on his chest. He'd forgiven Lucy for leaving him to marry Edward. Strange how the heart can ask different things after it has healed. His heart did heal, but the scars had left him irritable and moody. He was short with people and unforgiving of their mistakes. This afternoon Compton had left him blind with anger after the incident with the grenade.

These days he could bear to think of Lucy not as his former girlfriend and fiancée, but as his sister-in-law who loved his brother dearly. He even began to love her in a sister-in-law kind of way. All was forgiven on the Lucy front.

Charlie looked at the photo of the three of them. Little Charlie, all of three years old, looked like his daddy and his big uncle Charles - dark eyes, pitch black hair, a dimpled smile. Their father's Native American roots ran strongly in the male line of the family.

Yes, he thought as he stared at the ceiling, he could bear them being happy. Edward was heading for greatness in the academic field. Lucy preferred being a home maker, taking great care of young Charles Miller.

 _I've met some nice people here, especially colleagues at the university. I've spoken to Professor Armitage and mentioned you are in Iceland. Now I know Charlie, from your last letter, that the 5th Infantry is preparing for mobilisation in the European theatre. When that will happen, I can only conjecture, but I think it will be soon. The way Churchill is talking, the armed forces will be preparing assaults on the beaches of the Normandy coast. We go often to the movies mainly to see the weekly war updates. But you know I read all the papers and the major monthlies so I think mobilisation is imminent._

 _Anyway, Professor Armitage who is a research physicist and three other scientists spent a few weeks in France during the spring of 1940, when France surrendered to the Germans. They met and worked with scientists of Paris University. Armitage told me one of their brightest young scientists and lecturers was a woman who is married to a medical doctor._

 _Here is the request from Armitage, Charlie. He received a letter a year ago from Doctor Katrine du Pléssis, who asked them if their daughter could visit America and stay with people here until the war is over. Apparently, according to Armitage, the request from Dr. du Pléssis was very tentative. She must find it very hard to send her little girl away._

 _As far as I know, they haven't heard from Katrine du Pléssis again but Armitage remains concerned as Dr. du Pléssis's husband is a French Jew. Over here in the papers we've read scary stories about the Jews of France being rounded up and sent to concentration camps._

 _Charles, my brother, when you get to France - and I know it will happen soon - please look up this couple. Let us know how they are doing? Katrine du Pléssis has captured the imagination of the visiting Harvard Scientists and they remain concerned. Now I am also concerned!_

 _Will you make contact with this couple part of your sojourn in France?_

 _Love, as always,_

 _Edward._

Charles gave a big sigh as he folded the letter neatly and placed it back in its envelope. The photo of little Charles he pinned against the wall above his bed, joining the growing number of pictures there.

He knew they'd be leaving for France. Massive organisation was taking place with the preparations of American troops under Eisenhower and Patton, still on his Africa campaign, as well as the British contingent under Field Marshall Montgomery who'd successfully beaten the Germans at El Alamein. Since the United States joined the Allied Powers, the joint operations strengthened their chances of routing the Germans once and for all.

They would be in France, "mark my words" according to Edward Miller.

Katrine du Pléssis. He mouthed the name. It fell from his lips like cool ripples of river water. Beautiful and rhythmical. Katrine who wrote about her concerns for her daughter. He had to look her up and let them know at home that everything was all right with the du Pléssis-Blumenthal family in Paris, France. Would there ever be any opportunity to search for them? he wondered. That request had been written a year ago. What could have happened since then?

He thought Edward a tad premature about any invasion into France. But his brother had a certain intuition about the war. Edward, he knew, have a large table covered with maps in his basement, studying the development of battles in Europe and South-East Asia.

Katrine... Charlie suddenly wondered what she looked like.

 _Dear Charlie_

 _I hope you are alive because this war business is very draining on all the near and dear left at home. Mama keeps asking us when you will write again, and we keep telling her that mail to the armed forces in Europe takes forever to get there._

 _We did get your last letter, thank you ever so. Mama was very happy for once, especially when you wrote about that young man Beanpole Compton, the accident-waiting-to-happen guy. Shame really, that so many young men - they are teenagers really, if you ask me - enlisted. I was still in high school at eighteen. So were you and Edward. Please do regale us with some more dangerously-fun-things, okay?_

He remembered writing the letter months ago. He always responded as soon as he possibly could when he received a letter. Like all the other officers and soldiers, Charlie usually devoured news from home. It was sad when they all congregated at the post depot and some young privates had to turn away, disappointed they didn't get anything. Some got food parcels sent by their families, but he never really expected anything since he'd told them letters took so long to reach them. Yet he always enjoyed reading about home, even bearing through his disappointment of losing Lucy to his brother. He was over that. Trusting girls? "Not in this life," he muttered under his breath.

 _Little Evan is growing like a weed. We show him pictures of his uncle. At a year old he has just taken his first steps and said "Mama" before he said "Papa". We're teaching him to say "Uncle Charlie". You're his godfather, so you know there's a lot of responsibility on godfathers to teach their godsons some real good and fun stuff._

 _You know we love you very much, Charlie. Lansing was a little scared of you in the beginning, but he warmed up nicely once he got past your scowl, especially when you walked me up the aisle. He used to tell me he thought your scowl meant, "If you hurt my sister, I'll kill you with my bare hands!" I told him that was you on your good days, just to irritate the devil out of him, he's so serious sometimes. We were ever so grateful that you could get off to attend the wedding. Lansing says he's keeping you one of their cars. He says he sees you in a classic 1940 Cadillac Convertible._

Charlie smiled to himself. Winonah had married her Lansing after all, he of the used car lot and Pontiacs. Lansing was an honest to goodness young man with a heart murmur who took over his father's business. Charlie had created an extra savings account he called the Cadillac Account, which he'd started when Winonah married. It was to pay the installments on the car. He'd opted for the almost never used Cadillac. Besides,with the money left by their father in a trust for his three children, he was able to afford a vehicle. In two years' time the car would be paid off. Lansing owned the car lot now, as his father had died of pneumonia a few weeks before Evan was born.

 _We have appointed you as Evan's legal guardian. You're his godfather anyway and Edward and Lucy have moved to Boston. There'd be no one immediate except you and Mama. Just a precaution when we set up our will and our attorney asked about guardianship._

"Wow," Charlie exclaimed softly. "This is a real honour, to be appointed a legal guardian who happens to be on active service."

 _That is why you are under strict orders from all of us to stay alive when you join the rest of the US Army in battle against the enemy. One of my neighbours is a young girl who says she just loves seeing men in uniform. I told her, the reality is that many of those men never return home. Now you come home to us, okay? I want you to witness our son grow up to be as brilliant as his two uncles. Who knows, one day he'll row the Washington coxed eights to Olympic gold!_

 _Love you to bits_

 _Winonah and Lansing and Evan_

Lieutenant Robert Eugene Davis lay on his bunk and thought of home and the latest batch of letters he received. He loved hearing from Lynne and stories about the twins Michael and Andrew. Letters from his mother were always so upbeat, yet he could sense the concern from his dad, McKenzie, an admiral on active service in Southeast Asia.

His father had wanted him in the navy, but he wanted to join the army. He'd entered West Point when he was almost nineteen. While he started in the same year as Captain Charles Miller, their classes rarely coincided by their senior years. He thought Charlie Miller a driven man, disciplined, a brilliant strategist who was fascinated with the great generals of the past. Charlie reminded him sometimes of Admiral McKenzie Davis.

He had grown up a privileged kid, he supposed, whose parents allowed him to go Europe for summer vacation when he graduated from high school. He'd spent a great summer in St. Clair, France in '36 and fallen in love with Brigitte, a fiery French girl with dark eyes and curly black hair.

Summer love...

Brigitte, beautiful, bright, sparkling, with an unexpected toughness about her. They'd explored the area around St. Clair, made love under the bright summer sun, ate fish that they caught from the nearby river. No worries, no cares. Brigitte who would kiss him openly when all the townspeople were watching.

Berry Beaumont, for instance. Brigitte's cousin who watched them wherever they went, a perpetual scowl on his face.

"He's only my cousin, _mon cher._ "

"I think he's in love with you, Brigitte. I am in love with you!"

"Don't worry about Berry. We were raised together as children.

"Berry. Is that even French?" he'd stupidly asked, his ignorance exposed, since he cared less about the countryside and its people, his primary interest Brigitte.

"It's Bertrand, _stupide_!"

Of course, he should have known. But Berry had been the least of his concerns then, because he'd left days later to ride for France, an event for which he'd won Olympic gold in the team cycling event. Brigitte had sworn high and low she'd kill Berry first before congratulating him, because he'd once again fallen from his bike.

Robert sighed. Those were happy, carefree times, a welcome respite after a hard senior year in which he'd aced all his subjects. He'd badly needed the summer break before going to West Point, another bone of contention between him and Admiral McKenzie Davis. Brigitte had lit up his summer.

They'd written letters and sent post cards for a couple of years. He'd wanted her to come to America with him. Hitler was brewing schemes, so his father told him and he, ever the gallant, wanted to keep Brigitte safe.

Which, all things considered in the events that followed, was presumptuous, arrogant on his part. He assumed Brigitte would come running with him to America. She didn't want to leave home, to leave France and everything that meant loyalty and patriotism to her. The letters gradually dried up, the last one he received had been in '39, when Britain declared war on the Axis Powers.

How could he blame her for wanting to stay? He'd gone on to West Point and when he graduated, met Lynne when he was home for two months. With Lynne he realised finally how some things could be fleeting, even though in the heat of the moment one thought love could never end. A relationship couldn't withstand great distances apart, held together by the tenuous thread of love letters. He eventually discarded them all when Lynne came into his life. He was older and much wiser.

Brigitte was young, as he had been, in the first youthful flush of love. Time changed people and love changed too, he supposed, from the fiery, heated passion to simply ash after the fires had burned out. He hoped Brigitte had found someone whom she could love the way he loved Lynne. Robert remembered Brigitte's overprotective cousin Berry, who never liked him and once outright called him a slimy American come to take their girls.

He was the happiest man when Lynne Porterfield agreed to marry him, happier still when their twins Andrew and Michael were born a year later. He loved his wife and he loved his sons passionately. At almost three, they were boisterous kids running and jumping and who never quite stopped moving. Poor Lynne had her hands full. In her last letter she assured him that was okay, she loved having her hands full because the boys kept her young and on her toes. He'd still had residual feelings for Brigitte in the beginning, but as Lynne, with so much patience and understanding crept closer to him, it became easier. He loved her now wholeheartedly.

He remembered her latest letter.

 _Congratulate me, Robbie! My short story was accepted by a magazine called "Ladies' Home Journal!" I feel like a million dollars! I received a commission from the magazine to write four more short stories._

Of course he was happy for her. She loved writing, she loved being creative. He was never sorry that he he'd fallen out of love with Brigitte. Lynne had captured his heart and this time round, he wanted to remain captured for as long as he lived.

Sighing, Robert rose from his bunk and took out a sketch pad from his locker, flicking through the pages already containing drawings. The last drawing he stared at longest. It was of a projectile, a rocket, mainly outlines.

"One day I'll shoot one of you to the moon," he murmured. Then he turned to a clear page and began sketching furiously. He was so busy that he hardly heard the klaxon announcing it was dinner time in the mess hall. Thinking suddenly of Compton who was on mess hall duty, he smiled as he rose from his bunk.

He arrived late for dinner as usual.

"Been drawing them airplanes and rockets again, Lieutenant?" Linklater asked as he moved to sit at the officers' table next to Charlie Miller, who seemed to have a perpetual frown on his face.

Dressed in thick parkas with hoods over their heads so that only their eyes were visible and wearing gloves the platoon marched towards the fjord. They carried their backpacks and rifles, and one soldier carried the communications equipment. Base command still had to know where everyone was . It was below zero again and their bones protested at the extreme conditions.

"Keep walking!" Miller shouted as they trudged through the thick blanket of snow that had fallen during the night. In the the hours prior a blizzard had raged. Everyone felt the bitter cold and everyone dreamed of hogging the heater back in the Nissen hut the moment they returned. But this was necessary, Miller thought. The men had to become used to all conditions, all terrains. The enemy lurked behind every hillock of snow, every tree and bush, every ditch.

So they marched. They'd been at it for at least two hours. No one complained. He'd almost decked the first enlisted soldier who told him he'd cramped up and couldn't they return to base.

He'd yanked the hapless soldier at the neck edge of his parka, and bore into his eyes.

"Picture this, Marino," he fumed, "you're walking in enemy territory. Their eyes are everywhere and the ground you're walking on is littered with landmines. Are you going to lie down in the grass and take a nap?"

"No, Captain, sir!"

"Are you going to stand still because you have to pee first?"

"No, Captain, sir!"

"I don't care if your peepee is cramping up, you walk! You hear me?"

Then he shook Marino whose teeth chattered as he tried to answer Miller.

"No, sir. I mean yes, sir, Captain, sir!"

He let go of Marino so abruptly that the soldier plunged down into the snow. The second he hit the snow though, he was up again.

"I'm walking, Captain! I'm walking! Look at me! It's a blooming miracle!"

"Don't let me hear any complaints!"

"No, sir!" everyone chorused.

When they reached the fjord three hours later, they were exhausted and relieved when Miller ordered them stop for lunch.

They threw their backpacks down, rested the rifles with the barrels facing away from them. They'd had extensive training with their rifles. He, Davis, Longman and Compton handled them the best and guided the rest of the platoon in firing and general hand-to-hand combat. They'd be the battalion's sharpshooters and vital to clear the way for the rest of the advancing troops.

"Say, Captain, the water is fresh!" crowed Salminen, their Swedish-American soldier. Salminen filled his canister and drank the icy water. "One day, I swear to God, I'm going to bottle this water for everyone in my hometown!"

"Just make sure you get out of the war alive, Salminen."

"We're going to war?" asked Compton.

"As soon as possible, you drowning rat!" cried Linklater.

 _"I'm dreaming of a white...Christmas_

 _Just like the ones I used to know...!"_

"You brought along your ukulele?" asked Baxter, making the young private squirm as he cast a quick glance at Captain Miller, who found he couldn't help but break into a smile.

"No one said you couldn't bring along something to keep you occupied," Miller told them, his smile still in place when the young communications soldier, a corporal, approached him.

"Captain..."

"Yes, Laidlaw?"

"Received a message, Captain, from Major General Howick at Base Command. They're sending the Sikorsky R-4 to pick you up here. You're wanted at the base, a.s.a.p.. Lieutenant Davis will take charge."

Miller frowned heavily. What could they want at the base so urgently that they'd send a helicopter? Transfer to one of the divisions in Southeast Asia? He'd been chomping at the bit to get into the thick of the action.

"Thank you, Laidlaw."

Already they could hear the sound of the helicopter in the distance.

"What's up, Captain?" Davis asked.

"I don't know. Normally emergencies, or transfers. I'll have to wait until I hear at the base."

He didn't want to entertain other reasons, like serious family emergencies. His mother was fine now that Doctor Wachinski was taking such good care of her. Her heart had been ticking to a different rhythm since the good doctor came into her life.

The helicopter touched down. As soon as Miller boarded, they were airborne. He remained quiet on the way. Within half an hour they were at the base. The moment he was out, he ducked as he ran towards the main offices and knocked on the door of Major General Howick.

"Come."

When he opened the door General Howick was staring at a document in his hand and only looked up when Charlie entered.

Charles clicked his heels and saluted stiffly.

"At ease, Captain."

He breathed out, though something about the way Howick stared at him made him uneasy.

"Something is wrong," he stated simply as he saw the compassionate look in the general's eyes.

"You have to go home, Captain Miller. We are making arrangements for you to take the first flight from Keflavik Airport."

It rained, a soft drizzle that sifted down and created a diaphanous sheet of diamonds on the grassy lawns. Late September had brought about the first bursts of colour from the magnificent trees that stood like old sentries over gravestones. A great maple, already showing a profusion of red, towered above them in contrast to the evergreens. Tall spruces and pines - grand angels from the heavens ordained by God surely - watched over those whose final resting place was here, the Evergreen Cemetery in Detroit.

The words of the pastor comforted them in their unending grief.

 _Shall we not despair, for God wipes away all tears and there shall be no more death, neither crying, nor sorrow, nor pain..._

Minutes ago, all who stood around the graves were sad, silent, bearing traces in their eyes of the shock that had hit the families of Miller and Johnson. Edward Miller had sat in a wheelchair, the endurance of being on his feet all day finally catching up with him. He looked sternly impassive, a tough exterior wrought during the years of fighting discrimination of all those born with disabilities or who became that way through illness or accident. But Althea Miller knew her first born son was hurting as they all were, Edward who had been a solid rock in the days since she had been told of the news. Lucy stood next to him, patiently answering little Charlie's questions about death and dying.

Althea Miller was strong, as she had always been ever since her husband died and she had raised her three children alone. Yet, even in the depths of her being, she wept for the loss of a child. Once, she had attended the funeral of the child of one of their neighbours. The distraught mother had railed at the heavens, demanding from God why parents should outlive their children. Was that not supposed to be the other way round? That woman had been bitter and angry. Althea took comfort that her sons were with her, especially Charles who had been flown all the way from Iceland to be with the family and assist with funeral arrangements.

That son now stood to one side in officer's dress uniform. On his left upper shoulder was the insignia of his division, the red diamond, bearing the motto _"We Will"._ On his lapels the crossed rifles anchoring the number five. His epaulettes and garrison cap bore his rank insignia, two silver bars, denoting his captaincy.

He was alone now, standing a few yards away from the caskets before they were lowered side by side into the grave. If he cried at all, those tears bled inwards. He was not like many people who showed excessive emotion and wept large tears in a rowdy display of bereavement, nor did he throw his hands heavenwards and invoke God's wrath on all who were responsible for one's loss. Nor did he even blame God for letting things happen that were not of man's choosing or desire.

Life, he decided, was cruel.

 _"Charlie, you are under orders to stay alive, you hear me?"_

He felt a sob rising in his throat. Her last words in a letter to him. Memories of her surpassed only by the unforgivable shock to his system when he was told the news. He remembered that he'd been in a good mood for once, smiling when a young private played his ukulele. What was it about the fates that put one in a moment of merriment before it dealt one such earth shattering, devastating news?

The days rolled away to the moment when he was called to Major General Howick's office in Iceland. He had a paper in his hands, which Charlie realised was a telegram. His first instinct had been to ask whether he had received a promotion or transfer to the Southeast Asia theatre. But the overriding fear was too great, that he had been called away from his regiment, brought to base by helicopter, with all sorts of scenarios going through his mind of sickness, of death... Promotion? His mother with a heart attack, maybe? Something else he was not aware of that didn't involve home or his troops?

He'd stood stiffly at attention after his salute.

"At ease, Captain."

How was it possible to stand at ease when he knew that it would be only seconds between a good life in the army and sheer hell on earth? So he tried his best to remain calm.

When Major General Howick looked up, Charlie's heart sank. The senior officer's eyes held an expression of compassion, of pity.

"I have received this telegram from your brother."

His mouth had suddenly felt dry, his throat thick.

"What does it say?" his heart pounding so hard it felt like a physical pain.

"I am so sorry, Captain. Your sister Winonah and her husband Lansing were killed in a motor vehicle accident in Detroit."

He had felt faint, a deep buzz in his ears, so intense that he thought he'd lose his balance. He knew that he had been far from reality for a few seconds at least. When he could focus, it seemed the floor heaved upwards.

"W-what, what did you say?"

It was unbelievable. He had to ask the question again, as if he needed confirmation of the shattering news. He had been looking down, and when he faced the general again, saw the sympathy in his eyes.

"Your sister and her husband died in a motor vehicle accident. This news from your brother Edward who directed the telegram to me as head of this base."

Too shocked to digest anything, he stood still for several heady moments, unable to think, unable to grasp the truth of the general's words. Howick spoke again, words that seemed to travel from a great, hazy distance.

"We have arranged leave of absence for you to go home and be with the rest of the family."

He felt a constriction in his chest that was so painful he gasped. He remembered something...someone...

"Evan..."

"What about Evan?"

"Evan is their son. He's only a year old! What has happened to him?"

"No mention was made of the baby in the telegram, Captain. I am assuming he survived. Please convey our most sincere condolences to your family."

He'd nodded mutely and left the office to get ready to leave. He'd departed on the first flight that left Keflavik Airport.

Now he stood at the grave. Two caskets rested on their lowering devices. In the church, the caskets had remained closed, and framed photographs of Winonah and Lansing stood on each coffin. They had been gently prepared by the coroner...

Charlie closed his eyes, memories of their happy childhood flooding him.

 _"Tag, you're it!"_

 _"I'll chase you all over St Clair with a paddle, pumpkin!"_

 _"Don't call me pumpkin, dummy!"_

Another sob rose in his throat. When they were kids, they played in their lounge, much to the annoyance of their father. Edward, not very mobile, would good-naturedly play along. They'd fashioned balls with tightly wound old newspapers, playing dodgeball in the hall. Winonah's bright laughter would light up the house. Winonah with her beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair like their mother. Winonah who loved life, who ordered him to stay alive to be a good godfather to Evan, to be there one day, God help him, when the parents were no longer there.

That day, o cruel day! That day had come sooner than anyone thought!

A rainy night. Mama taking care of Evan while his parents went to the cinema to relax. Bad visibility when they returned. A dark winding road. Wheels that skidded. A tree. That was all it took to kill two young people, leaving a year old baby an orphan. The police said both died instantly. They did not suffer. What kind of consolation was that? They were dead. Dead! Evan, still just a baby, too young to be left without a mother and father.

They had waited for him to return to the States before making any arrangements. Lansing was an orphan with distant relatives too far away in other states to attend the funeral or engage in arrangements.

Edward and Lucy rushing from Boston to be with Mama. Mama, too shocked to speak much in those first hours after the police knocked on her door. Dr. Wachinski always ready to attend to her. Throughout the last few days of sorrow and pain, Wachinski had been at their mother's side, her constant solace. Mama held baby Evan to her, weeping like he had never seen her weep in all his life, not even when Papa died.

Edward and Lucy dazed, but unfailing in their support. Lucy, who was expecting their second child.

 _You're his godfather, so you know there's a lot of responsibility on godfathers to teach their godsons some real good and fun stuff._

Charlie blinked hard, for the tears he'd kept so long at bay threatened to undo him. But Winonah's last letter haunted him, stayed with him.

 _I hope you are alive because this war business is very draining on all the near and dear left at home._

"Winonah, I cannot promise not to die," was what he wrote her once, because she'd been so afraid something would happen to him.

 _That is why you are under strict orders from all of us to stay alive when you join the rest of the US Army in battle against the enemy._

I am so sorry, sweet Winonah, courageous Lansing... We are the ones left behind.

 _We have appointed you as Evan's legal guardian. There'd be no one immediate except you and Mama. Just a precaution when we set up our will and our attorney asked about guardianship._

No...

He felt the hand of the undertaker on his arm.

"We're lowering the caskets now, Captain."

What sick irony of life lets an innocent woman and her husband die when all her orders to him were that he keep alive for all their sakes?

He nodded mutely. Once they activated the lowering devices, Captain Charles Anson Miller stood at attention and saluted. He remained that way until the caskets were down.

 _Rest in peace, Winonah. Rest in peace, Lansing._

Then he turned on his heels and walked towards the car driven by Dr. Wachinski. There was a lot to be done, the main thing his newly elevated status as father to a parentless little baby.

Baby Evan kept crying most of the time, but Althea Miller had a good hand, having raised three children, one of them who had needed extra care from the age of twelve. It was now a week since Winonah and Lansing's funeral. Somehow, with her motherly touch, the baby seemed to calm.

"We're taking care of him, Charles."

"We?"

"Doctor Wachinski and I - "

"Oh. Doctor Wachinski has a name?"

"Isaac."

"Mama, you and Isaac. He has worked into your heart?"

Althea Miller smiled.

"Your father was a good man, Charles. But he is no longer with us, with me. I'm not that old, you know."

Strangely enough, it didn't bother him so much. His mother needed the company, the comfort of being cosseted, loved. Wachinski wasn't that bad. He really provided the support his mother needed. She was just as shattered at losing a beloved daughter and son-in-law as he had been when given the news in Iceland.

Edward and Lucy were expecting again, and with a hyper active three year old running about their house and a father whose movements were limited at best, having a second child would put extra strain on them if they also had to care for little Evan.

"Yes, I know, Mother."

He took the baby from her. Evan's crying stopped instantly when he looked into the startling blue-grey eyes of the baby. Evan looked a little like him, Edward and young Charlie. Pitch black hair and dimples when he smiled. He was tanned like them too. Soon Evan would be walking, would say his first words, even say "Uncle Charlie" like little Charlie did. He'd have two cousins to play with.

"You're leaving soon?"

"I've arranged for the manager of the used car dealership to continue the business. At least until the lawyers can decide what's to happen. Lansing had no close relatives, and baby here," Charlie said as he tickled Evan's tummy, "is still too young to take over the business."

"He might not even be interested," said Althea. "He might prefer to be like his two crazy uncles and live on a body of water."

"I'll teach him everything, Mama."

"And that is when?" she asked, her voice soft and concerned.

Charlie sighed. Who knew what the course of the war would be? What he knew for certain was that the invasion of France was imminent, and once France was liberated, beating the Germans would be next. This time the Allied forces in the European theatre would be bolstered by the US armed forces. That was why they trained so hard in Iceland.

"Perhaps not so long, Mama. Maybe two, three years. I'll write as often as I can, okay? And Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Tell Isaac Wachinski to marry you. Let him know I shall personally throttle him if he hurts you."

Althea Miller smiled as she took the baby from him.

"Don't worry. He knows that already!"

"Good!"

The telephone rang at that moment. He frowned and got up to answer it.

"Miller's residence."

"Captain Charles Miller?"

"Speaking."

"This is base commander Major General Howick."

"I am returning to base on Tuesday, sir."

"5th Infantry is transferring to the British Isles, son. Be on the next flight to Northern Ireland."

Charlie's heart started racing. The time has come.

"Yes, sir."

On the plane Charlie took out Edward's last letter to him. For some reason he needed to read it again. He knew now for certain they were making final preparations to invade France, and Northern Ireland was where they'd be doing intensive training.

 _Charles, my brother, when you get to France - and I know it will happen soon - please look up this couple. Let us know how they are doing? Katrine du Pléssis has captured the imagination of the visiting Harvard Scientists and they remain concerned. Now I am also concerned!_

END CHAPTER FOUR


	6. Chapter 6

WARNING

Dear Reader

This chapter was one of the hardest chapters to write. It focuses on atrocities committed in concentration camps of WWII. These gruesome things happened in camps to inmates - men, women and children. While my characters are fictional characters, the things they went through are non-fictional.

CHAPTER FIVE.

 **Buchenwald, Germany - 1943**

 _"I asked to see one of the barracks. It happened to be occupied by Czechoslovaks. When I entered, men crowded around, tried to lift me to their shoulders. They were too weak. Many of them could not get out of bed. I was told that this building had once stabled 80 horses. There were 1,200 men in it, five to a bunk. The stink was beyond all description_

 _They called the doctor. We inspected his records. There were only names in the little black book, nothing more. Nothing about who these men were, what they had done, or hoped. Behind the names of those who had died, there was a cross. I counted them. They totalled 242. 242 out of 1,200, in one month_

 _As we walked out into the courtyard, a man fell dead. Two others, they must have been over 60, were crawling toward the latrine. I saw it, but will not describe it."_

Extract from Edward R. Murrow's Buchenwald report \- April 15, 1945

Daisy Ginsberg fell into a restless slumber on the top bunk she shared with two other women and a child. Her arm was slung over the emaciated body of the sleeping girl. In the dark world of their sleep, the child's body twitched, a sign that she was dreaming. Soon, Daisy realised, she would wake up in a sweat, gasping for air that was dank and thin in the barracks. Then she'd clamp her hand gently over the little girl's mouth to prevent her from screaming or sobbing.

They'd been here almost a year. Conditions were as harsh as she had imagined. The barracks smelled foul, sweaty. The impulse to gag at the odours of putrefaction of bad food given them and dead bodies they'd taken too long to remove had left her after the first two weeks. Now the stench was part of their breathing, for they had all lost any sense of sweetness. They lay cramped together. At least four children in the barracks were hidden from the guards. They had learned to remain motionless, soundless, hungry throughout the day, whenever the guards came to inspect the place.

To Daisy, the only comfort that she could derive from their desperate conditions was the fact that she was still alive, the child was still alive and the rest of the inmates managed to keep their hopes up.

In the deep of night, she lay with her eyes closed and allowed herself the luxury of dreaming of golden days past - family picnics in Alsace, her husband who laughed at her silly jokes, of Zannah, little Zannah who was sickly but bore her sickness with such child-like courage.

Now, lying on her stomach with her arm over the sleeping girl, her luxury dream morphed into the nightmare of the day they were trucked out of Paris, a late afternoon in summer when the sun's last rays touched the tops of buildings of the old city. Her body twitched as the months and days rolled back to that day...

 **Paris - 1942**

The truck stopped about twenty miles outside Paris, near a railway line in a remote, woody area which was mostly dark and isolated. Daisy Ginsberg looked around her. She held two children to her, children who were scared out of their wits. Her little daughter had wet herself from the shock of being hauled out of their home and thrown into the truck. No explanations given by the surly Germans whose voices uttered commands in the rough, guttural tones of their language.

But they all knew why they were corralled like beasts and thrown into the lorries. They were mostly Jews and dissidents, political prisoners, all squeezed together, hardly able to breathe. They carried their most meagre belongings, some had nothing at all, like the little girl and her father who lay semiconscious against his daughter. The blood from the gash on his forehead had congealed. The little girl had wept silently after screaming for her _maman_. Daisy had seen a woman try to get to her child, and Lucien Blériot strike her a hard blow with the butt of his rifle. They knew their fate. They were going to die, eventually. They would never see their homes and their loved ones again.

A cattle truck stood waiting. They could hear screams coming from the train. Daisy clutched the children's hands, kept them close to her.

"Out!" ordered a German officer, waving his side-arm at them. Soon the officers who followed in their _kübelwagen_ joined the first German and the driver of the truck. When they couldn't get off the lorry quickly enough, they fired shots in the air.

They scrambled to get out, the father of the distraught little girl tumbling to the ground, hitting his head against a rock. He stood up, staggering about. When the little girl tried to scream, she pulled the child to her bosom to prevent a sound coming from her. Her own daughter was too weak as she too failed to get up when she fell out the back of the lorry. Daisy tried to lift her child while still holding on the other girl.

"You!" shouted the first German, pointing his gun at the frightened girl's father, "you look sick. You are not fit to live or work in our camps!"

Daisy held firmly on to the stricken man's daughter. The father turned to look at them, reaching for his little girl. It seemed to Daisy that he was too dazed to realise he reached for the wrong child. In a sudden burst of events another soldier jerked her child from her and threw the beaten man and her daughter together. She bit back the urge to scream. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with angry tears.

Without warning, as if he was merely acting on an angry impulse, the soldier shot her daughter and the injured man. Machine gun fire ripped through their bodies. They did not scream or cry out but simply sank noiselessly to the ground. She tried not to scream as her daughter lay dead. Suddenly the other child lunged away from her toward her father but she yanked the child back, covering her mouth roughly with her hand. Other trucks had also arrived and those men, women and children were marshalled to the train.

In the precious seconds before they too moved to the train, Daisy bent down to face the terrified child. Then she did something, a blind, intuitive reaction to the situation. She didn't allow herself time to grieve for her dead daughter, for she knew, as every adult in the truck knew, they were on their way to a concentration camp. They'd all heard stories about the unbearable conditions of the thousands who had already died of privation or gassed to death. In her heart she mourned the death of her daughter and her tears fell inside her.

But now, a little girl was without her father and her mother. A little girl with golden brown curls and blue-grey eyes.

"Shhh, child. When they ask you, your name is Zannah Ginsberg. Will you remember that? The little girl who died, her name was Zannah, and she was my daughter. We can do nothing for her and for your daddy now. Stay with me..."

They were bundled into the cattle truck which already stank of urine and faeces, of vomit, of blood. She kept Zannah with her, protected her as if she was her own daughter. They had no idea of time or destination. Some of the people, too sick or injured, died. One man who was a rabbi prayed for those who died on the train. When the train stopped in the middle of nowhere, the bodies were dumped in the fields. No burial, no dignity.

"Now, Zannah," she bent down and spoke to the child again, "we are going to try our very best to stay alive, _tu m'entends_? You hear me?"

And Célestine du Pléssis, now Zannah Ginsberg, nodded mutely as the train carried them to the camp. There they were ordered to stand in a row, separated the men from the women and the children, marched slowly through an office where each prisoner was photographed, their names recorded and a number tattooed on their arms.

 **1943**

"Why am I being posted to the Buchenwald Camp?" Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim had asked three days ago.

"You need to become more aggressive, Von Wangenheim. At Buchenwald with its thousands of prisoners, you can develop that aggression and become emotionless after the kill."

He had wanted to tell the general that the prisoners at the camp had no means to defend themselves, when the general continued.

"Because they are unarmed, you can exploit your inner demon, the one you fight hard to repress. Let it come out. Many women are there, especially young girls. Use them, Oberleutnant. We will recall you once you have become sufficiently detached about slaughtering the enemy."

He had clicked his heels and saluted "Heil, Hitler!" before he left the general's office.

Buchenwald.

Its reputation had preceded it. Thousands of prisoners, mostly men and boys, and two barracks into which a thousand women and children were crammed. Conditions were harsh so he had heard from his fellow officers. "Treat the inmates like the scum of the earth they are," he was told. "You are a true Aryan, Von Wangenheim, of aristocratic blood. You are the younger son of a Baron, a _freiherr._ _Du musst einen Killerinstinkt entwickeln, Von Wangenheim_. A prisoner who talks back, shoot him on sight. We show no mercy. They are without any worth. Soon we'll will transfer those undesirables to other camps where they will be exterminated, for they are vermin, understand? That is their lot, do you understand, Von Wangenheim? They are nothing. They are not your kin, they are not your friends, they are not worthy of being spat at."

Many inmates had died of privation, some simply walking then dropping dead, literally just skin wrapped around bone. Others were hanged publicly to serve as a deterrent for anyone who tried to escape. There was heavy artillery - mortars, canon, antiaircraft guns - and a host of snipers just waiting for a prisoner to try and run away.

Helmut turned away from the window and sat down at his desk. The picture of his brother's horse and his own, Kürfürst and Tannhauser, stood on one side. Konrad had won Olympic team gold on Kürfürst in Berlin with a broken collarbone, a hero in Germany's eyes. On the other side of the desk was a picture of his mother, brother and sister. Grossmutter Adelheid had passed away two years after the Berlin Olympics, on the Munziger Estate she loved so much.

He had his _Klavier_ brought to the camp as well as his Tononi, the violin handed down through two generations of Von Wangenheims. He needed music like his next breath and playing the instruments would be a good distraction from the daily grind of overseeing thousands of prisoners debilitated by poverty, privation and abuse. He still had hopes of riding Tannhauser at the next Olympic Games whenever that was to be resumed, since the summer Games had been suspended indefinitely. He was as good, if not better than Konrad who served in the cavalry regiments.

" _Wir sind Deutsche_ , Helmut. _Nur das zählt_ ," Konrad had told him a few weeks ago.

"Nothing else," Helmut murmured softly. "Nothing else is important..."

He remembered his orders. Ensure roll call is done every day and pick a nice Jewish girl as your play toy. Helmut closed his eyes at the innuendo of these so-called "pleasurable" duties.

 _"The camp is full of young Jewish women who need to be taught a lesson or two..."_

He got up abruptly, scraping his chair in the process. Nauseated by the images of the officers' lecherous accounts of their sexual exploits, he walked to the bathroom and retched. Minutes later he left the office where he joined the camp Kommandant for the roll call in the large compound. A thousand women and young girls stood absolutely still. If one moved it was because she collapsed in a heap on the ground and died. It was almost afternoon and the inmates had been standing there since early morning.

The officers sauntered slowly past the rows and rows of inmates, the female guards whipping a few women to attention as he passed them. He grimaced at the sound of the riding crops they used on the prisoners.

" _Steh gerade_!" one guard barked. The women's shoulders would stiffen visibly as they tried to remain upright.

They looked bedraggled, hungry, emaciated, abused. He tried not to make eye contact with anyone, yet he noted how proud they were with an inborn strength no whip or hangman's rope could destroy. So the whipping intensified. One woman sank to the ground. The guards ordered her to stand at attention. She got up slowly. Helmut noticed how her feet were bleeding. Next moment a shot rang out, and the stricken woman sank to the ground again, dead.

"Let that be a lesson to you!" the Kommandant shouted. Helmut remained unmoving, trying not to flinch at the pure malevolence of the act. Hands behind his back he followed the other officers down the row of women.

He saw a woman holding a child's hand. A child no more than seven or eight years old. He looked away pretending he was as detached as the other officers. One of them paused when they reached the woman and child. He looked her straight in the eye, then nodded. The woman dipped her head.

Helmut didn't have to ask about the meaning of their wordless exchange and about the women of the camp who were prostituted by his fellow officers. He remembered the general's words.

 _Many women there. Use them. Explore your inner demon._

He rocked up as Kapitän Günther Götze pointed to the young child. She looked straggly, doe-eyed and very scared, clinging to the woman's hand. A Mother protecting her little girl. Helmut noticed how the woman tried valiantly to curb the tears he saw in her eyes. He felt the bile rise inside him. The mother stood dead still, knowing that if she objected, she would be shot dead in front of her child. The officers and guards had little patience...

Young Zannah Ginsberg was scared from the moment the soldiers had thrown her and her papa in the truck. She had not stopped being scared. The great big soldiers were like giants to her, giants that could step on her with their boots and kill her right away.

When they shot her papa, she had wanted to scream. Then she felt a hand covering her mouth. She couldn't scream but in her fear had wet herself. The woman told her to keep still and pretend she was her little girl. She was Célestine du Pléssis, but her new maman told her to say always that her name was Zannah. She even liked the name. Now she pretended all the time that she was Zannah Ginsberg and not Célestine du Pléssis. Her new maman told her it was to keep her alive, that whatever happened in the camp, they must both try to stay alive.

Her new maman told her that her husband was working in a labour camp somewhere in Germany, that she had not seen her husband for a long time. She missed her husband and her little girl who died in Célestine's place. Maman Daisy told her to be courageous and to stay alive for a long as they could.

She missed her papa, her own maman Katrine and Lamine. She missed playing the violin. Music always made her feel better. At home she played for Lamine who was so sick and who loved her as much as her papa and her maman.

In the camp, her new maman made sure she slept at the back of their bunk so that the guards and soldiers couldn't see her. During the day, the women taught her mathematics and English. Now she could even speak a little bit of German. Many of the other girls were taught by the older women too, for one day when they could get out of the camp. They could then attend school and catch up faster.

Every night she dreamed of home, of being with her own maman, of playing the violin and making Lamine laugh. Every day she was scared when the soldiers made them stand in the cold to count them. She was not sick like some of the other children. The soldiers had tried to take her before, but Daisy Ginsberg always managed to keep her safe. Whenever they came to take the women and the girls away, they wanted to take her. Then Daisy would block their path.

"Take me, instead, Oberleutnant Berenger. I'll make it double worth your while," Daisy would tell the officer.

She did not know why the women went with the German officers. Sometimes she saw young girls cry when they returned to the barracks. And all the time Daisy was there to protect her. She was glad because she did not want to return to the barracks crying with her arms and legs and thighs full of red marks.

Today there were new soldiers and officers who had come to live at the camp. It was bitterly cold, but they had to stand in the courtyard. All the women and girls stood in a row and then the soldiers and officers inspected them.

"Courage, Zannah." She knew that Daisy Ginsberg did not say the words, but she felt it in the way Daisy squeezed her hand.

Zannah couldn't breathe, so afraid was she when two officers stopped right in front of them. Her heart beat so hard that her body ached from the pain.

"Courage, Zannah..."

But she couldn't stop being afraid.

" _Die Kleine hier_ _wirkt energisch_ , Helmut," said the first officer. "Very feisty. I think I will enjoy this little plaything."

Zannah was terrified, for the German's eyes looked strange and wild, like he wanted to eat her. He rubbed his hands together and licked his lips.

"You!" he pointed at Daisy, "make sure this little - "

"Oh, no, Kapitän," the other officer interrupted him, "I have explicit instructions from Oberstleutnant Johann Gaertner to have my pick first. The child is mine!"

"You must enjoy being an aristocrat, Von Wangenheim," said Kapitän Günther Götze, "with all your connections in high places. Fine, enjoy your new toy."

"That will be my pleasure, Kapitän Götze. This little bird belongs to me."

Zannah felt her hand squeezed even tighter. She couldn't look at Daisy. She didn't want to look up. What if they shot her dead?

 _"Whatever it takes to stay alive, Zannah. Remember that..."_

The officer Helmut took his riding crop and pressed it under Zannah's chin to make her look up at him. She stared into eyes that were very blue, bluer than her own or her _maman_ Katrine. She was so afraid! She did not want her legs and arms and thighs full of deep scratches like the other girls. The officer Helmut bent down a little and kept the riding crop under her chin.

"You will be brought to my quarters by your mother after dark. That is an order!"

This time she looked at Daisy. Daisy's eyes were full of tears. Zannah knew that if Daisy did not take her to the officer's quarters, they would hang her outside where everyone could see the body for days on end.

"Maman?"

This time she heard Daisy give a little sob, then answered, "Yes, Oberleutnant."

"Good. See that she has a clean dress."

The officers continued to walk past the other women. Only when they stopped their counting were they allowed to walk back to the barracks.

"What is going to happen to me?" Zannah asked Daisy.

Daisy stopped abruptly then bent down. She gripped Zannah's shoulders. This time the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"I could not protect you this time, my sweet Zannah. I feel I have failed you. _Mon enfant_ , whatever happens to you tonight, _sois forte_ , _tu m'entends_? Stay strong."

Zannah could feel how Daisy was shaking as she wept and she wondered why Daisy wept so.

Her hair was brushed - it had not been washed in a long time but it looked neat. They had found a clean dress for her. She wore her only pair of shoes, the ones she wore the day the soldiers threw her in the truck.

She was afraid. Her heart was beating much faster. If she pressed her hand against her chest, she could feel the thudding. What was going to happen to her? She tried to remember what the women had said about the young girls.

 _"They are torture toys..."_

Zannah thought it meant that the girls were injured in some way, that the officers punished them. Did they do something wrong? Was she going to be one? A plaything for a German officer?

"Come, child," Daisy said softly, her voice sounding like she wanted to cry.

So she held Daisy's hand and walked all the way to the main living quarters of the officers. Daisy knew where Oberleutnant von Wangenheim was. When they reached the door of his quarters, Daisy knocked once. Then she bent down and hugged Zannah fiercely.

"Be brave, will you, sweet Zannah? Be brave..."

The door opened. Oberleutnant von Wangenheim stood there. Daisy sighed as she looked straight at him.

"I have brought the child, Oberleutnant. Her name is Zannah."

" _Danke_. Now you can leave."

Daisy turned reluctantly to walk to the quarters of the officer in whose service she had been since they arrived at Buchenwald.

 _Seulement rester vivant_ _...stay alive...God will surely look down upon us and protect us._

Helmut Von Wangenheim stared down at the child whom he thought to be no more than seven or eight years. She looked so scared, her hands trembling, as if she waited for something fearful to happen to her. He closed his eyes briefly. He had a sister whom he loved unconditionally. When they were about this young child's age, they had all of Munziger as their playground. This girl was an inmate who had once known freedom, gone to school, played hide-and-seek and impressed her teachers. He stifled the urge to bang his fists against a wall. Then he straightened up because the child was still standing outside his door.

"Come inside," he commanded.

Zannah stepped hesitantly over the threshold . It was lighter here than in the barracks. There was a bright lightbulb in the small lounge. Her eyes caught the phonograph on a little table in the corner of the room.

Helmut sat down on the couch, beckoning Zannah to stand in front of him. She hesitated.

"Now!"

The child stepped forward, slow step after slow step. Even in her abject state, the slenderness of her frail body, her gaunt face, Zannah Ginsberg was beautiful.

"Do you speak English?" he asked. Zannah nodded.

"Good. I will address you in English."

"Do you know why you are here?" he asked her. Zannah shook her head.

"Speak to me!"

"I do not know," she said softly, beginning to whimper.

Helmut tried to ignore her distress.

"You are to be my plaything, do you understand? Look at me when I speak!"

"Yes, Oberleutnant."

"What does it mean? Tell me!"

"You will p-play with m-me, Oberleutnant."

"How? How will I play with you?"

"I do not know."

"I will tell you. You will sleep with me in my bed and I will do things to your body, between your legs, do you understand?"

"Yes, Oberleutnant."

Helmut von Wangenheim felt the old rage surge through him. It had been all he could do today at the roll call not to lose his temper, to rein in his emotions. He knew what his colleagues were up to, whoring every able female in the camp on a nightly basis. They had no compunction about raping young teens of twelve, thirteen years old, beating and torturing them. Was that what they expected of him? Was that why he was sent to Buchenwald, hoping the camp would turn him into a debauched rapist? Günther Götze was going to take this silent child and turn her into his little toy. A child! He felt again the urge to retch, forcing it down vehemently. He breathed until the sensation of nausea receded.

And Zannah wondered why Oberleutnant Helmut looked angry. He was very tall, and his hair was almost white. She saw his hands tremble a little bit. She didn't want to look into his eyes and wait for him to injure her legs and thighs and mouth and chest. Oberleutnant von Wangenheim just sat there with his hands together staring at her and not really seeing her. So she tried to look somewhere else quickly.

She gasped when she saw a black upright piano against one wall. Her eyes widened even more when she saw a violin on top of the piano. Above the wall was a painting of a beautiful chateau in a forest. On a small table in front of the couch stood a chess set. A door led from the lounge to another room. That must be the bedroom, she thought.

"Do you know what happens to the other girls?" she heard Von Wangenheim speak. Startled, she turned very quickly to look at him, else he would hurt her. When she didn't respond, he repeated, "Do you?"

"No, Oberleutnant. I do not know."

"One day when you're a little older, you will know exactly what happens here, Zannah Ginsberg. They expect me to do the same to you, you understand?"

"Hurt me between my legs and my thighs and chest?"

"Yes, that and much, much more."

The distressed child began to weep softly. He let her cry until the crying stopped. He had to be hard on her, though it killed him to see her so afraid.

"Come here, child," he invited as he pulled Zannah closer to him, hugging her tightly. She did not demure even as he put the fear of the devil in her. She was only a child, _Gott im Himmel_ , who weighed next to nothing and he was supposed to prostitute her.

He released her then said, "Look at me, Zannah."

Reluctantly she complied, her face tear-stained.

"I will do you no harm, do you understand? I will not hurt your legs and arms and chest and thighs. I will never hurt you. But little girl, I need you to understand that when you go back to the barracks, that it must look like I have tortured you. Do you understand that?"

She was quiet a long time before she nodded. He had seen her look with a kind of wonder and longing at the piano and the violin.

" _Sag mal, magst du Musik?_ "

"Yes." He breathed a sigh of relief that Zannah was talking instead of simply nodding out of fright.

"Do you play?"

"I play the violin. My-my papa taught me and also Maestro Sargozy."

"Is your father here, in the camp?"

"He died."

Helmut nodded, took Zannah by her hand and led her to the Bechstein.

He took some sheet music from the top and placed it on its stand. Then he opened the violin case and lifted the violin with great care from the case. "Do you know the Mozart Lullaby?"

She had played the Mozart often for Lamine when he was so sick. When Zannah smiled, Helmut gasped. Her features transformed to sheer beauty as she took the violin and positioned it against her chin and neck. He sat down on the stool, playing a soft arpeggio to flex his fingers while Zannah did the same, tuning her instrument to the correct key.

"Ready?"

Zannah merely nodded as Helmut started the short intro of the Mozart _Wiegenlied_. They played together in perfect counterpoint as Zannah became used to the instrument, used to playing again. She hadn't played in months and her joy overflowed as she surrendered to the beauty of the music, her eyes closing at the poignancy of the lullaby.

Helmut, momentarily stunned, continued playing, realising he was listening to a young prodigy. When the piece ended, he sat still for quite some time, hands on his thighs. He felt the old anger again. Anger that the camp hid such unsurpassed talent, of all kinds - music, literature, art, everything! He kept staring down at the black and white keys, the storm raging for several minutes.

"I was not good, Herr Oberleutnant?" she asked shyly, her fear forgotten.

He stared blankly at her. "My dear child, you are better than good. It was sublime! We shall play more."

"Yes, Oberleutnant."

They played a few more pieces together, Zannah improving her skill by the minute, continuing to stun Helmut.

Later he gave her something to eat. They sat down at a small table and ate in silence. When they were finished, Helmut gave a great sigh. He had to do something to the child lest his colleagues suspected something that she didn't look injured enough, at least not over the first few weeks. He hated doing it, he hated war, he hated the mindless torture of the innocents. Zannah had to return to the barracks in some sort of disarray.

"Zannah..."

"Yes, Oberleutnant?"

"I have to send you back to your barracks, but I cannot send you like this. I...have to injure you in some way, do you understand?"

"So that they can think you have injured me between my thighs?"

 _Gott im Himmel_!

"Yes. So here is what we're going to do..."

Daisy Ginsberg stumbled into the women's barracks in the early hours of the morning. She managed to find her way to their bunk and climbed up, feeling at the same time for Zannah's body. When she settled in, she flung her arm round the sleeping child. Although Zannah was sleeping, her body twitched, and Daisy could feel an occasional sob escaping the little girl.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blank out the depravity of the German officers enforcing her compliance. If only Günther Götze didn't invite two of his colleagues to his quarters. She could handle Günther on his own, but two or three more was punishment trebled. The things they did to her, the things they made her do...

Shame had left her the day Kapitän Götze first took her to his quarters. When she refused, he let three other officers rape her. She never complained after that. It was a desperate play of survival on the stage of her life. She wanted to stay alive, whatever happened. Now her body still trembled in the aftermath of their sick lust. Her throat ached and she found it difficult to swallow. Her lower body was so tender that she stifled a cry of pain as she tried to move her legs, to shift to a more comfortable position.

Their faces flashed before her, their crazed lust, finding new ways of wasting her body, their ugly laughter, their guttural exchanges in German. And she had to play along, pretend it was what she wanted, what she enjoyed.

 _Don't think, don't think..._

Yet she couldn't stop herself. She was so tired, so abused, how could she endure another night like this? When would deliverance come? Where was God to whom she had prayed every single day to save them? The tears squeezed from her eyes, rolled silently in a never-ending stream down her cheeks. She was too tired to try and stop the flow, or wipe the tears from her eyes.

So she lay weeping until at last she fell into a restless slumber.

In the morning she awoke, with Zannah staring worriedly down at her.

"Did they hurt you?" Zannah whispered.

She pulled the child to her and whispered back. "No, my child, they did not. I am still alive. Did Herr Helmut hurt you?"

Zannah's eyes filled with tears. Then she pulled up her dress and showed the long weals made by the scoring of nails along her thighs. Red, ugly weals on her legs, her arms, her tummy.

"Zannah...?"

They were lying alone on the bunk, still too close to the next bunk, so they kept whispering, as pretty much everywhere in the barracks there was whispering. Other women who had gone out for the night and crawled into their bunks in the early hours.

"Maman, Herr Helmut said I must scratch my own legs and thighs and arms, so we can pretend."

Daisy stared very long at Zannah, her mind a whirl until the revelation sank in. She had seen the Oberleutnant flinch when an officer shot Vivienne Le Maitre in cold blood. She had seen his brief look of alarm when Günther Götze picked Zannah in order to violate her in his rooms, and she'd been relieved beyond measure when Von Wangenheim stepped in.

A look. It was all it took, although to the rest of the German officers he was as debauched as they were. He was using his position as an aristocrat with connections in high places to protect Zannah. A look which told Daisy that she could trust von Wangenheim, that what he'd done by intervening was saving Zannah's life. Now, Daisy didn't care for herself, as long as Zannah was safe.

"He will protect you, Zannah!"

"He has a piano and a violin. We played together a lullaby and some other pieces."

 _"_ _C'est extraordinaire_!"

Daisy hugged Zannah to her and began weeping, for now she was overtaken by joy that one soldier in all of Germany could save a child from the prostitution racket in the camp.

"He said I must come again the day after tomorrow."

"Shall I take you myself, then?"

"Yes, _maman_..."

So began the unusual relationship between a young inmate of Buchenwald and Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim. He saw her twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was always Daisy Ginsberg who brought her to his rooms.

Helmut had gone to the camp Kommandant and informed the SS Officer that the child Zannah Ginsberg was now his "property" to treat in whatever way he desired. Oberstleutnant (lieutenant-colonel) Johann Gaertner had grudgingly agreed that Helmut could keep Zannah as his favourite, for he too, had become jaded, hating camp life as much as Helmut had. It was a dangerous emotion, that of being jaded, for an atrocity was easier to commit because the perpetrator was angered. Gaertner was a married colonel with two young daughters. He had had enough of debasing himself, so it had been easy to consent to Helmut's request. Word had gone out quickly that Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim, by virtue of his high birth and connections in the right places, could exercise his rights in whichever way he deemed prudent. No one was to question Helmut on his decisions.

It meant that the other officers could not touch little Zannah. Helmut thought Grossmutter Adelheid would have told him to leave the child alone and do everything for the fatherland. Grossmutter did not suffer fools gladly. To her, the young men who entered the war had a duty to the Reich and that meant defending it to the death. He was glad Grossmutter was no longer alive. She would not have liked him much.

Zannah touched something in him, perhaps it was her very innocence. His mandate had been to become more ruthless, to take any woman, for a Jew was simply expendable, meat to be devoured, to kill without conscience.

He had been stunned at the appearance of the child the minute she stepped into his quarters. Fey, lightweight, small for her age, she had been terrified those first few minutes. After being so hard on her, he had managed to allay her fears and she had begun to talk.

He had acquired more sheet music from Berlin, mostly pieces for piano and violin. He had heard that someone in the camp who had once been a member of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, played the cello. Perhaps at some future date he could let the inmate come and test the lone cello standing in Gaertner's office. He sighed. Protecting Zannah had become all consuming, a delicate dance in which he had to be at once ruthless and caring.

One evening when she came, she'd looked at the chess set on the coffee table.

"Do you play?" he'd asked.

Zannah shook her head.

"We call this game _Schach_."

" _échecs_."

"French?"

"Ja."

"Good," he said when he picked up a piece. "This piece is called _König_...king in English."

Zannah nodded and said, " _Roi_."

He had begun to teach her from that time onwards and Zannah had learned fast. Now, as strange as it appeared, he enjoyed playing chess with an eight year old camp prisoner. He enjoyed making music with her. One evening when she came, he had played a recording on his phonograph. Zannah had frowned, the question obvious in her eyes.

"It is Beethoven's 3rd symphony, sometimes called _Eroica._ " So whenever they played chess, music was always playing softly in the background. Zannah had her favourites. She loved Chopin, Debussy, Faure. He was passionate about Beethoven, Bach, Bartok.

He enjoyed watching Zannah eat normal food. He had been careful not to give her too much, lest it aroused suspicion among the other women in the barracks. But Daisy Ginsberg was always there to protect her, to parry any questions they had. Strange, he thought, that mother and daughter did not look at all alike. Perhaps the child resembled her father.

He had begun to look forward to the child's visits and every time she had to leave, it tore him apart to watch how she scored long scratches on her body to make it look like he had raped her. Then he waited for Daisy Ginsberg to collect her late at night. Sometimes the child was so exhausted that he let her sleep in his bed while he bunked down on his couch. In the early morning he had to wake her so that Daisy could walk her back to the barracks - two females in the aftermath of sex. Later, months later, she didn't have to scratch herself.

He'd been rocked when Günther Götze intimated in his greasy tone, "So, your little toy is becoming used to sex, Von Wangenheim. She looks well stretched between her thighs."

If they had been in any other situation outside of the war context, he would have beaten Günther Götze to the ground and have him beg for mercy. Yet, he had to concede that Götze judged Helmut by his own debauched, evil standards. The man was his superior officer after all. Helmut had merely nodded and replied with something generic.

At the roll calls, he'd dress in the uniform of the Wehrmacht, polish his already shiny boots, check for his sidearm and the riding crop. He had to look the part of a debased German officer thriving in the hunt and rejoice in the kill.

He had not dared voice his agonies to his fellow officers, like "When will the war end"? They'd accuse him instantly of being a traitor to the Reich. Things were happening in Buchenwald that made his hair stand on end, and he had to play down his own concerns about the unnecessary brutality with which they treated the inmates. They'd tell him that der Führer's vision for a Reich of a thousand years had not yet been realised and until his objective had been completed, the concentration camps would remain full of Jews, dissidents, political prisoners, homosexuals, Gypsies...

 **Autumn**

One evening on a very cold night, there was a knock on his door. He frowned. No one disturbed him after lights out. He had always liked it that way, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Zannah came. It was Monday and it was raining.

When he opened the door, Daisy stood there with Zannah in her arms. They were drenched. The child looked sick. He took the child from her and laid her gently down on his couch. She was burning up with fever and appeared semi-conscious.

"Please, Oberleutnant von Wangenheim," Daisy begged, her eyes full of tears, "do something for Zannah. They are going to separate us tomorrow. I heard. Kapitän Götze has a loose tongue when he's drunk. Last night he was mumbling about sending half the camp on a trek to Auschwitz. What is going to happen there, Herr Oberleutnant? Why are they sending the inmates away?"

"Before I answer you, let me do something first," Helmut said. He went into his bathroom and returned seconds later with a face cloth. "Stay here with Zannah. Take this cold compress and dab her face and neck to keep her temperature down. I'll be back."

Helmut waited first for Daisy to sponge Zannah's face. Zannah had woken in the meantime and was crying softly, " _Maman...Maman_..."

He didn't waste any time, walking briskly to the medical buildings, his mind in a whirl. Of course they didn't let him in on what they were doing, but he, like his brother Konrad, read the war well. Konrad's last communication was had been "We are losing the war, Helmut. I suggest you get out. Leave Germany. You never were one for the wars, my brother."

How could he leave? He too knew that they were losing on the front lines, that cities and towns in France had already been liberated, that the Allied Forces were advancing steadily on all flanks. Russia was penetrating deep into central Europe. Helmut gave a big sigh. He really wished it were over. Whatever happened, his part in the war would be ticked next to his name. It was a development he knew was inescapable.

That was why approaching Herr Doktor Schiller who had once been the team doctor of the German Olympic team was of utmost importance. He had to think on his feet now for strategies to save both Zannah and Daisy Ginsberg. He should not let them out of his sight. Schiller would help, and if he refused, Helmut was going to make him comply, in the most authoritative manner possible.

The doctor was still in the hospital writing notes when Helmut burst through the door. He hadn't been here before but now, looking around, he realised that the hospital facilities were reserved mostly for the German staff. He'd heard stories of experimentation on children, although he could swear by God that Herr Doktor Schiller, a family friend whom they knew well, could never have been party to such practices.

He forced away images of experimentation on the inmates, especially the children, many who died after given vaccines to test immunity that would later be used for the German forces.

Schiller looked up from his notes and penned Helmut with a searching look.

"Oberleutnant von Wangenheim... I was expecting you," the ageing doctor said.

Helmut frowned. How was that possible? he wondered.

"Why is that, Herr Doktor Schiller?"

"I know Allied forces are advancing, Von Wangenheim. This business...I grow tired."

"I need your help now, Herr Doktor. A young girl, burning with fever..."

"She has typhus," said Schiller instantly, scraping his chair as he got up and prepared his medical bag. "She needs help immediately. Who is with her now?"

"Her mother. They are in my quarters."

Herr Doktor Schiller looked up, startled, the surprise clear in his face.

"The child was your toy?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking. Come, we must hurry."

"Why am I agreeing to help you, Von Wangenheim?"

"Because you know my family, liked my Grossmutter Adelheid and treated my brother Konrad at the Games in Berlin."

"That is good enough for me. No, a child who is sick is good enough for me. I will keep this a secret, ja?"

"Ja."

When they reached his quarters, Daisy was still sponging Zannah. Schiller clucked like a hen when he opened his bag and produced his stethoscope and thermometer. Minutes later he exclaimed, "Too high fever. But you called me in time."

He filled a syringe with chloramphenicol. Rubbing her upper arm with disinfectant, he administered the injection. Zannah gave a tired little cry as the needle punctured her skin.

" _Maman...Maman_..."

"Shhh, little one. Soon you will feel better," old Schiller said in a reassuring voice.

Then Schiller spoke to Daisy. "You need to disinfect her clothing. Better still, burn her clothing. Shave off her hair and burn that too. This disease is spread by lice. Helmut," addressing the officer by his name, "this couch needs to be disinfected. Here are some powders you can use. Someone needs to stay with this child night and day. She cannot go back to the barracks."

Daisy looked hopefully at Helmut, who nodded severely. He could practically hear her sigh of relief. He'd have to face Jürgen Götze about releasing Daisy as his playmate.

"I will come tomorrow evening again, Von Wangenheim." The doctor penned Helmut with a contemplative look. "You would do this for a Jew?"

"I would do this for a human in need, Herr Doktor."

"That is what I thought. No one shall know of this. Good night, Von Wangenheim."

The moment the door closed behind Schiller, Helmut turned to the child.

"She calls for her mother," he said absently as he stroked her cheek. "Yet you are here. Why is that?"

He glanced up at Daisy. It seemed her shoulders sagged from a great weight she had been carrying.

"I am not her mother, Oberleutnant Von Wangenheim. When they took us away, her father and my own little girl were shot dead. I told her to stay with me and called her Zannah, which was my daughter's name. She would have been alone..."

"And dead by now," Helmut said with wonder. "You saved her life."

"As did you, Oberleutnant. She told me."

Helmut smiled grimly. "You will stay here in my quarters with her until she is well. Let me handle my colleagues."

"Thank you, Oberleutnant."

"There are a few dresses in a cupboard as well as underclothing of children who have died in the camp. Use that for... What is Zannah's real name?"

Daisy Ginsberg smiled tenderly as she stroked Zannah's hair from her face. "I only know that her father called her Célestine."

"As beautiful as Zannah."

"I had time enough to grieve my losses, Oberleutnant, though sometimes I miss my little girl. She was already sick at the time we were captured. I live through this child."

"I understand. I know that there will be a right and left separation tomorrow. I cannot prevent that, Daisy. It is out of my hands. I only pray that those left behind be saved."

So Daisy Ginsberg became the live-in help of Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim, and the child Célestine the only clean anchor in a sea of atrocities committed against humanity. The day after Schiller treated Zannah, the camp was divided. Those shifted to the left had to go on the cattle trucks to other concentration camps in Poland where they were exterminated in the gas chambers, those on the right remained behind and were safe, for the time being.

Herr Doktor Schiller attended the sick child until she had recovered from the dreaded fever that ravaged the camp and killed off another five hundred inmates.

END CHAPTER FIVE


	7. Chapter 7

PART TWO: ST. CLAIR

 **CHAPTER SIX**

 **FRANCE: Utah Sugar Red Beach - 9 July, 1944.**

 **0600.**

Dawn broke bleakly over Utah Beach as tendrils of mist hovered before lifting slowly, allowing the men to peer across the soggy beach. The boats had come in as close as they could to the shore before the soldiers began to disembark. Landing meant jumping into the rough Channel waters and swimming or crawling the rest of the way until they could tread solid ground. In their hundreds, they moved as stealthily as possible so the noise of the ocean waves could drown the sounds they made. Dark figures swimming in the semi dark found the beach in groups of two or three. Behind them, the boats bobbed dangerously as the heaving currents caused them to keel over before they settled again. In front of them was the beachhead, cleared a month earlier when the Fourth Infantry Division landed in the early hours of the morning and fought off the Germans, gaining a valuable foothold into France. The beach rose sharply towards an apex where they could discern tall grass trembling in the light breeze. It had started to drizzle again.

At Utah Beach's long pier, supply vehicles were offloaded from boats. Troops advanced into the French heartland by trucks, tanks and other military armoured fighting vehicles. Shorter distances involved marching from town to town.

The men who made it to shore first were quick to offload their rucksacks and other equipment, waiting for the rest to join them. They wore the emblem of their division on the left arm; just above their rank insignia blazed a red rhombus-shaped diamond. They were the Red Diamonds - the 5th Armoured Infantry Division.

Captain Charles Miller looked around him and pursed his lips then frowned when when one of the younger men - a private - still struggled about twenty five metres from the shore. In the foggy distance he couldn't discern the identity of the flailing soldier. They had been doing training in Iceland and advanced training in Northern Ireland, the damned soldier ought to cope. Or so Miller thought.

"Hey, get a move on there, will you?" he yelled. He doubted whether he could be heard above the noise of the crashing waves. The head, when it reappeared, looked familiar to him. From this distance with poor visibility, it wasn't possible to discern who it was, unless he counted heads…

"Sir, I - !" the young man screamed before he vanished under the water again.

"Captain, it's Beanpole Compton!" shouted one of the other soldiers who had made his way up the beach and joined the rest of the regiment trudging through the wet sand up the gradient. That pretty much settled the identity of the hapless private and caused Miller to knock his fist against his helmet.

"Oh, Gawd…" Miller groaned.

"Not him," said Lieutenant Davis as he stood next to Miller and tried to gauge the Captain's level of ire. If the fist knocked the helmet, that meant trouble for the young private. If both hands covered his ears, it meant serious trouble for anyone who crossed him. Captain Miller seemed to be on a slightly short fuse this morning. His helmet sat askew on his head, and that was not the Captain. He liked his helmet to sit just right.

"He's going down, Captain!" Ian Baxter shouted as he trudged in the soft sand, lugging the radio equipment and plonking it down heavily at Davis' feet. Davis gave a snort of disgust. They'd all had the same training. Compton should make it, the fool. Eugene Linklater joined Davis and Francis Longman as they watched the area where Compton went under. Compton's head bobbed up instantly. The three weren't too perturbed, wanting to see just how far they could let Compton stew.

"There! There!" Linklater yelled when he saw Compton bobbing up and down in the water.

"What the hell's the matter with him?" Davis asked as he finally made to move towards the water's edge. But Miller had anticipated his movement and was off before Davis could take two steps forward. Davis groaned. This was not good at all.

Charles Miller threw off his helmet and dived into the white surf, vanishing quickly in the direction of the stricken soldier. "Help - " he could hear the call over the sound of the waves. One hand came out of the water and Miller dived under. When he emerged, he had the young infantryman. Compton's arms were flailing and he gasped and coughed as he threatened to go down again.

"It's alright, Compton. Relax your body. Do it!" Miller shouted as Compton struggled, pulling both of them under the heaving waves before they came up again. "I'm going to kill you!"

Miller coughed after swallowing some water, recovering instantly to hold on to Compton's ruck sack. He had barely time to register that the young fool didn't lug his bag alongside him. Not even the natural buoyancy of the salt water was enough. He had gone down like an old sinker before trying to dislodge his bag.

Miller's words appeared to have the desired effect as Compton relaxed, giving himself over to the waves and being held by the collar by his Captain. Miller tucked a hand under Compton's chin, forcing him on his back. Still treading water they inched slowly towards the beach. Several anxious minutes later they lay on the beach, just inside the edge of the tide marks with the waves splashing against them. Both men were gasping, Compton lying on his stomach while Captain Miller hoisted himself to a sitting position. He turned Compton over on his back after the infantryman had retched the last of the water he'd swallowed.

Compton looked in the Captain's coal black eyes and tried to turn over on his stomach again. He had no inclination to be bludgeoned by a pair of angry eyes.

"Oh, no, you don't. Look at me!"

Bedraggled, wet and shivering, Compton turned slowly to look at Captain Miller. He had a sudden and great desire to be back home on their farm in Iowa in his mother's house, lying in a hot bath and never have to look into Captain Miller's eyes again.

"You'll kill me, Captain, sir!"

"Damn you!" Miller yelled, grabbing Compton's shoulders and forcing eye contact with him. Compton's eyes shifted nervously before the shifting stopped and he engaged the Captain's penetrating eyes. Miller's jaw clenched, a muscle twitched and his eyebrows seemed to come to life as they knitted together.

"Don't you ever fool around like that again, Compton. I've just used up the third of my nine lives… The first two I recall, I used on you!"

"Sir, I wasn't fooling, sir. The current - "

"Caught all of us, Compton. But you thought this was a goddam game, didn't you?"

Compton was being shaken like a wet rag, his teeth chattering not only from the cold, but from the way his head snapped back and forth. Just as suddenly the shaking stopped. Compton had tears in his eyes.

"It w-won't happen again, sir, Captain, s-sir…"

"You fished him out of an icy river, too, Cappy!"

"Shut up, Linklater!"

"It's not as if he can't swim, for cryin' out loud," Shakes Cruikshank added to Compton's woes.

"And then Compton jammed his grenade, remember, Shakes? Over in Iceland. We were on peaceful manoeuvres! It was a live grenade for godsakes! He almost got the entire Fifth Armoured Infantry floored!"

"Hey, Sarge! This here Compton's got Cappy mad again!"

Sergeant Ian Baxter was too busy setting up the radio equipment to pay much attention to Linklater when he knew that the Captain had things under control, judging by the way poor Compton "sir'ed" Captain Miller all over Utah Beach. So Baxter just waved dismissively and continued with his work.

"If it weren't for Cappy - "

"I said shut up!" Compton yelled at Linklater, to be followed by "Sorry, sir" when Miller shook him again. But Linklater was going for the jugular.

"The Captain just happened to be in the vicinity, Beanpole, or we would have been beef jerky!"

"No, Cappy didn't 'happen' to be there, Linklater," Cruikshank replied. "He knew Beanie's history of accidental accidents!" Cruikshank burst into a fit of laughter. He was joined by Linklater who held on to his shoulder and shook as he snorted.

"Put a lid on it, you guys," Miller commanded. Linklater and Compton, good friends as everyone in the regiment knew, clamped their mouths immediately and waited for their captain to issue one of his decrees.

Captain Miller was in no mood to find the exchange between the buddies humorous. He was soaked through, his feet squished in his boots, he itched all over and he needed to set up temporary camp at St. Mére Eglise, which, by his calculations, lay about ten miles southwest of their present position. They'd have to get there in wet rags. He grabbed Compton none too gently by his scruff and pulled him to his feet.

"When this war's over, I shall personally oversee you taking swimming lessons in Lake St. Clair, Compton."

"I can swim, Captain, sir!"

"Jesus Christ, then you tell me what that goddam waddling in the water was for?"

"A miscalculation, Captain, sir!"

"Fool! Get those lessons, will you? Advanced!"

"Aye, sir. When the war is over, sir! I'm looking forward to it, sir! But, sir, I was never one for the water like you. You're a hero in a long boat!"

They just couldn't stop reminding him of his medals, of rowing for Washington State and for the US team in Berlin and winning gold. He played it down, though he was dying to get into a boat again as soon as he was back on US soil in peace time. He missed rowing with Edward'

"The long boat is history, understand? Grow up, Compton. The war will get you." Miller thrust him back again, and Compton hurried to his feet and stood at attention. The Captain's eyes blazed as he spat out, "This war is not a game. I need all my men, Compton. Don't go dyin' on me…"

The instantaneous penitent look on Compton's face was enough to soften Miller. The kid was only twenty one…

"Aye, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Be a proud wearer of the Red Diamond, Compton."

"Aye, sir," Compton replied, and Miller was rewarded with a salute for good measure.

Miller's furious eyes softened a fraction and Compton gave a sigh of temporary relief.

"Now, let's get moving! Davis, have we got radio communication?"

"Aye, Captain. I've got a line. It's Colonel Drake of the Fifth Corps, Captain!"

Lieutenant Bob Davis had been watching the interplay between Captain Miller, Compton and Linklater and one or two of the others. He stifled his laughter at the way the two privates fell over themselves to try and stay out of harm's way. Harm being an irate and soggy Captain who had just fished Compton out of danger for the third time. It wasn't very often any of them saw a softened Captain Miller and the way his eyes had lost, albeit very briefly, the hard glint, but Davis knew that the Captain had been anxious. The men still had to get to know the Captain in this mood. They saw anger, remoteness and a hard edge to the Captain while Davis could translate those same feelings into concern for his men. Captain Miller had a way of cloaking his anxiety in hard line tactics with the result that the men were a little afraid of him, a situation which could have advantages.

Davis surveyed the industry of the men about him. They were gathering their equipment and their ruck sacks and had moved towards a clearing on the rise. The trucks were ready for them to load, before the convoys of armoured vehicles started moving in the direction of St. Mere Eglise. The fog had lifted and the grey turned lighter, improving their visibility. It was summer, but the early mornings were still cold and foggy. There was no enemy for at least a hundred and fifty miles east, the beachhead having been secured a month earlier by the Allied Forces. For now they were reasonably safe, but they had to get to St. Mere Eglise. Davis held the receiver to his commanding officer.

"Hope it's good news, sir…"

"Thanks, Davis," Miller murmured quickly, shivering as he grabbed the phone from the blue-eyed, blonde young man. Bobby gave a wide grin and Miller wanted to kick his behind for looking sprightly at 06h50.

"You out looking for a fight, Davis?" Miller grumbled, but at least secured a twist of his mouth that indicated a smile.

"Can't help it, Captain. We're going to kick some Jerry's butt around here."

Miller held his hand over the phone and glared at his second-in-command.

"They may be more than a match for us, Davis. Never underestimate the enemy. He lurks - "

"I know, Captain. He lurks until you're upon him, only to look at him with surprise when his dagger is lodged in your chest."

"Good, remember that, Davis."

"Aye, Captain."

Captain Miller listened carefully to the new orders given by Colonel Drake.

"This order comes from Allied High Command, Captain," the voice crackled over the radio. "The Fifth Infantry Division has been assigned to the Fifth Corps as part of the First Army. You'll be relieving the much blistered First Infantry Division at Coumond - "

"It's an honour, Colonel."

"Don't sing anyone's praises yet, Miller. Hopefully after Coumond, you'll get your new orders."

"Which are?" Miller sounded more curious than surprised. They had been operating as an independent unit since they had been first been reactivated in October 1939, at Fort McClellan. Even then, the 2nd, 10th and 11th Regiments were together, as they were now. Their unit - the 10th Regiment - had been an excellent outfit, in spite of snipers like Compton who got into hot water occasionally.

"You'll hear from Allied High Command itself, Miller. More I can't say at this point."

Miller gave a sigh.

"You sound disappointed, Captain," Colonel Drake suggested, but Miller waved that statement away.

"Orders are orders, sir."

"Damn right they are."

Miller listened carefully as Colonel Drake continued, making his communication concise, yet carefully issued. Miller nodded from time to time, taking his field pen and jotting down times and positions where he was seated on a crate next to which Davis had set up the radio equipment.

"Understood, Colonel."

"Good luck then to the Red Diamonds, Captain."

"More likely Red Devils…"

"It's going to be a hard battle, Captain. We're far from where we need to be. God be with you and your men…"

"God help us…" Miller murmured as he put the radio phone down and met Davis' gaze.

"If I may say, sir, you did sound a little disappointed with the new commission."

"Davis, what the hell did we do in Iceland?"

"Prepared for the invasion here?"

"No! We sat there building bridges and securing airfields, performing boring tasks while the rest of the Allied Forces landed here. A month ago!"

"Sir, that's not true, and if I may say so, again, sir, you know it."

The lieutenant's striking blue eyes remained fixed on Miller's face, and Miller relented.

"We're the best, Davis. I promise you that. Advanced training we may have had in Northern Ireland, but here," he said, thumping his fist into the sand, "here is where the difference between war games and war will be counted, Davis. Here!" Miller repeated.

"You wanted to be somewhere else, I guess, Captain."

Miller spared Davis a quelling look, then he sighed deeply.

"I was hoping that we'd get assigned to the - "

"Newly operational Third Army, is that right?"

"Right. Do you know who commands the Third Army?"

He was a soldier. So was Miller. They were West Point graduates. Why wouldn't he know? Miller's question was superfluous, but Davis surmised Miller wanted to say it nonetheless, because it rolled from his lips whenever they were in consultation. In the last month particularly. Miller's admiration could be measured in the way he studied every battle, every move Rommel's Afrika Korps made, and the counter-offensives of the Allied Troops in Africa. Throw in for good measure Caesar's Gallic Wars, the Romans' Siege of Carthage, the life and times of Taras Bulba, Hannibal, Napoleon… Yeah, Davis knew…

"General George S. Patton, Jr. I know, sir. You've studied his Africa Campaign at length…"

"Then you'll know we would be in good company, Davis. Patton is one helluva sonofabitch of a general."

"If I may say so, sir, the man's a visionary, an anachronism, a throwback to the Carthaginian Hannibal." He wanted to add that Miller was the same, but kept his counsel. The man was a genius planning attacks and strategies, keeping his men in line. Miller was not far from Patton, from Hannibal, from Caesar… Davis gave an inward smile. Miller was destined for promotion, that's for sure.

"Yeah, that's him." Miller's hand went to the upper left pocket of his shirt and patted the pocket. Davis noted the action.

"Don't worry, sir. It's safe. The water-proof covering protects Caesar wherever you go…"

" _Caesar's Gallic Wars_. I - "

"You know, Captain, some soldiers carry their Bibles in their shirt pockets... "

"Hey, I have that, too!"

"Never get tired of reading it?"

"What, Caesar's Gallic Wars or the Bible?"

"You got me there, sir..."

"Yeah…" Miller replied and for the first time since they landed, he gave Lieutenant Davis a sheepish smile, the closest he came to being embarrassed reading heavy Latin texts. Miller was into reading, his bibliography of texts mainly military, though he thought he did spot Miller one night reading a Bible. But then, a number of soldiers carried The Book with them…

"Well, we have our er…immediate orders, Captain," Davis said, pausing deliberately before he said 'immediate'. He hoped they would get reassigned, but that always depended on how successful the Fifth Division's offensives were. After Coumond, who knew? Right now, they were getting ready to advance to St. Mère Église, a short stopover before moving further south. "Everything alright, Captain?"

Miller stared at his second-in-command for long moments. Mindless of his wet uniform, the thundering waves and noise of the sea, the fog that had lifted enough that they could see the first tepid rays of sunshine, he stared at Davis, then turned his gaze out to the sea, the English Channel. He supposed a person could see the cliffs of Dover if he looked hard enough but the journey here had been harrowing, and that young fool of a Beanpole Compton - whoever called him Beanpole named him aptly - had to go and endanger his life by fooling around. The thin as a rake, tall as a California redwood Private Reddham Compton was accident prone. He'd accidentally sprung a hand grenade while on manoeuvres in Iceland. He was young, Miller thought, too young to be fighting a war, but here he was, a member of the Fifth Infantry Division trying to be a soldier. God Almighty help him.

"Sir?"

Captain Miller looked up at Davis, shook his head then rose from his seat.

"We're ready to move, Lieutenant. Let's go!"

With that reply Lieutenant Robert Davis had to be content. Miller had walked away towards the jeep that was to transport him. The sergeant stood waiting as he approached. Davis shook his head, beckoned to Cruikshank to pack up the radio equipment quickly.

"You don't want to get left behind, do you?" he said affably.

"No, sir. Not at all, sir."

 **July 10 09h00 - St. Mere Eglise.**

Charles Miller was wound up like coil. His skin tingled as he held the book, worn with age, pages well-thumbed, with darker stains on the left hand or right hand corner at the bottom of each page. Some of the text was already fading, with letters illegible from water stains. He had removed his helmet, and the morning sun - a mild relief from the constant rains of the past few weeks in Northern Ireland - bathed him in warmth. It was foolish, he realised, to wish that the good weather would continue. It was supposed to be summer, but 'supposed' insinuated a range of temperatures and weather that fluctuated between cold, wet, and miserable.

Ste Mére Église was a very small town, a village really, and the nearest to the site of their amphibious landing at Utah Beach. There weren't many inhabitants, but those few who ventured to open their front doors waved and smiled at them. A month earlier, they had been one of the very first towns liberated by the Allied Forces. They hailed the new arrivals with considerable enthusiasm. Miller thought they'd never rest until all of France had been liberated. He had heard of the enterprising underground movements that had sprung up all over France and Belgium. The Resistance comprised men and women - even children - who risked their lives for their country. He had heard of parachutists from the 101st Airborne Division who had been hidden in homes, cellars.

He remembered his brother's instruction to him a year ago, that he try and look up a woman scientist, Katrine du Pléssis. How was he going to do that? Their first order of business was to liberate towns occupied by the enemy. This Katrine and her husband were probably based in Paris since she was most likely linked to that city's university. Charlie sighed. He'd try and make enquiries if they should advance to Paris at some point.

Their regiments were ready to take to the road, but his regiment's commander, Colonel Steinbauer comma had informed them that they were to proceed to the Coumond area some 30 miles southwest. They'd have to be on the road again, twenty four hours after the men had dried out and cleaned up. Yesterday Eugene Linklater had hurried past him, saluting him with "I'm in France!" Miller smiled. Linklater had uttered the same sentiments in Iceland and Northern Ireland. He'd probably say the same the minute he stepped on German soil, God help the blighter.

The temporary Headquarters was a small house on the town's main road and Major General Leroy Irwin was in consultation with the most senior officers of the division. Miller experienced a twinge of envy, then calmly told himself that one day, he'd get there, to the ranks of the Army hierarchy. Right now he had to contend with commanding a company. The rush he'd felt since landing remained with him, making him impatient to get to the front. The Fifth Infantry Division was highly specialised and highly skilled in armed combat and their armoured divisions were ready to roll, literally. Besides himself and Davis, Linklater, Longman and Compton were his finest snipers. Linklater smoked himself to a standstill and could shoot a target at two hundred paces with his cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. They might be young and playful at times, but the moment they held a rifle in their hands, they became disciplined handlers of specialised weapons. Compton was fine as long he stayed within Miller's orbit.

Miller had taken a quick shave, hating the stubble that had formed overnight. It was a vain wish to think that he - or any of the men - would get such opportunities for regular ablutions. When the opportunity presented itself, in whatever weather or condition, they'd get round to washing and clean up. Miller snickered. When they'd entered St. Mere Eglise, the men – still boys, really – had suddenly found immense inspiration to "clean up for the girls", so one of the corporals had told him.

Deep in thought he stared unseeingly at the pages of the book, the Latin text fading out, to be replaced by images of Compton smiling with open-faced innocence. By the end of the war… God knew how these young men, uprooted from their homes, from all things that had been familiar to them - wide open spaces of the Prairies, Kentucky grass, parents, wives, girlfriends, brothers, sisters - would stand up in the face of the enemy. Some of them might never return. He remembered suddenly the feeling of doom he'd felt eight years ago when he sat in his eight oared shell, being congratulated by his team and seeing the faceless mass waving red flags with the four cornered cross. He remembered how the flags seemed to flutter in slow motion as if they were bowing to an unseen deity, and how his victory suddenly felt strange, hollow. A shadow fell across the page.

"You're blocking what little sun I have," he said coolly, without looking up.

"Sorry, Captain, but the message has just come from Headquarters," Davis said. "We move in half an hour."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

Miller rose to his feet, wrapped Caesar's Gallic Wars in its waterproof covering and slid it in his pocket. He looked at Davis, his eyes narrowing the way they did when he had been mulling over snippets of intelligence. He nodded, then turned towards where the sun had risen on the horizon.

"We move to Coumond. Not that I think the 1st Infantry Division need much backup there. But new orders are coming in soon, I expect."

"Why do you think that?"

"A German Panzer Division is stationed at Vidouville, Davis. My guess is that Vidouville is our real objective. We're going to engage the enemy almost immediately…"

Miller's jet black hair shone, in sharp contrast to the blonde hair of Lieut. Davis and he managed a tight smile when he spoke.

Davis thought Miller to be a little mad. The man actually appeared excited at the thought that he'd be fighting Germans. Maybe if he looked hard enough at the Captain's hands which appeared to be shivering slightly, he could see that the captain was wringing his hands in anticipation. A strange rush of heat spread through him as he thought of their pending offensives.

"Aye, sir. Our patrol vehicles are already moving. The morale of the men is high, Captain. Thanks to your little speech when we arrived here."

"The men needed it. Did you know that Longman's brother died last month at Omaha Beach?"

Davis nodded sombrely. Many men had died that day. Many…

The two men walked towards a truck.

"Ready to roll, Elsevier?" Miller asked the driver.

"Aye, sir. The road has dried out a little. The terrain is passable…"

"Good. Let's go!" the captain yelled. He got in beside the driver of the second jeep, a tidy quarter ton all-terrain truck. Elsevier, a corporal, would probably drive 16 wheelers as soon as the war was over. Davis had joined the others in the first jeep. The convoy started to snake in elegant, long curves along the natural contours that the roads formed in the undulating grassy terrain out of Ste Mére Église in the direction of Coumond. "And God help the Krauts," Miller mumbled as he shifted to make himself comfortable.

 **Battle of Vidouville - 17 July 1944**

"Is he gonna stand up there on Hill 183 all day, Lieutenant?"

"As long as it takes for him to survey the carnage and think about things," replied Davis.

"I've never seen anyone fight hand-to-hand combat like Captain Miller," said Longman, whose voice was filled with awe. "The man's a beast!"

"Think about it, Longman, we're infantry, we're foot soldiers, we're trained in hand-to-hand combat. We need a man like Captain Miller who can explode in physical combat and not worry how he brings the enemy down. Most times, things that happen in your early life triggers the demon that had been hidden there all the time."

"You mean we all have them dark demons, Lieutenant?"

"Our dark side, which we can discipline to remain hidden forever, or let it come out and play."

"You mean kill, like I saw Captain Miller yank that German's neck? Made an almighty crack. Could hear it all the way up Hill 218!"

"That bad, huh?"

"That bad. Hey, you ain't that bad either, Lieutenant. You're maybe a little nicer shooting them Krauts."

"I'm nice about killing another person? What do you do if a Kraut jumps at you from a hidden alley? Hmmm? You gonna stand there and say 'come and get me'?"

"Hell, no!"

"Good. This is war. It's you against the enemy, Longman. Never forget that."

Davis seemed short-tempered. Maybe everyone got was getting in each other's hair after the showdown with the Germans. There was a big difference talking about war and fighting on the front lines, just like Captain Miller always warned them. Everyone had gotten a rude shock the last five days, including Davis and Captain Miller. But they didn't broadcast their emotions all over Vidouville like some of the soldiers after they had seen their comrades shot or they had blown out the Germans' brains at point blank range.

Longman sighed. He'd been terrified when he shot the first German at two hundred paces clean off his lookout tower at Hill 218. The German pitched out and hung over the barrier of the tower, hands dangling like a puppet over a balcony. While most of their company carried sniper rifles, Miller, Davis, Beanpole and he had theirs fitted with enhanced night vision scopes. Once he'd seen the German with part of his skull blown away, he'd felt like gagging all over Captain Miller's boots. The captain had given him one of his rare smiles and patted his helmet for good measure, then told him to hold down his vomit and focus on the next target. That night when they bivouacked outside the town in their tents, he was on sentry duty. The captain approached him. He wondered if the captain ever slept.

"You never get over your first kill, Longman."

"Aye, captain."

"I need my men to be on guard one hundred percent, okay?"

He'd nodded, and thinking that the captain would remain to chat with him, got sorely mistaken when he saw the captain crawl into his tent. There, according to those who walked past the tent, the captain read a book. Always a book and sometimes a letter. Didn't the man smoke or toss back a beer or something?

Longman gazed for a long time at the lone figure on the hill overlooking Vidouville. The battle had raged for days, their flanks strengthened by the aerial attacks launched by the US 101st Airborne Division on the German panzers. The Germans kept advancing on the southeast sector of the town which was their entry point and they kept driving the Germans back, advancing inch by slow inch. The hills were the key positions. They won Hill 218 after a hard battle, then Hill 183, where Captain Miller was now standing. Whoever held the hills had the upper hand, fighting to the death to gain strategic advantage. To get 183, Miller fought like a demon at the vanguard of his platoon, giving as much as he expected from his troops, even more. The captain had stationed Compton, Davis and Linklater on 218; he and Miller manned 183, from where they fired at any German soldier that moved from his own strategic position. By that time he had been over the shock of killing the enemy soldier who was probably just a normal guy in peace time, a farmer's son or something.

Captain Miller was something out of this world, thought Longman. But whatever he was, a laid back lazy son-of-a-gun captain he was not. A throwback to Napoleon or Hannibal, yes. He was an officer they trusted. That first day, just on the perimeter of Vidouville, they'd taken positions. Captain Miller had been brusque, his orders barked like they couldn't disobey them if they tried.

"Aim the moment you see a jerry move on those lookout towers, guys. Longman, you take the left and Compton, the one on the right. They're the ones we target first. We need to get there, understood?"

He had never killed a man in his life. Longman was certain Compton hadn't killed anyone either. Maybe coyotes back on their farms. He'd once shot a coyote at five hundred yards. Damn skin lay on the floor of their lounge on the farm.

But a man? The enemy?

The German had pitched out of his lookout tower and dangled over the barrier, quite dead as Longman could see through his scope. Compton's target met the same fate. After that, all hell broke loose.

The air was filled with smoke and the noise of gunfire, buildings destroyed, pockmarked walls, heavy artillery, panzers that drove over their own men who fell in front of them. One moment, maybe just a split second, he saw a German popping up in front of Miller, who fired at point blank range, he was that close. Next moment another German fell upon him. This time the captain grabbed him, twisted him round, his arm like a vise round the chest and neck. Then he grabbed the soldier's head and jerked it so hard, they could hear his neck break. The soldier sank to the ground, dead.

"Captain! Watch out!" he'd heard Davis shout.

But Miller was ready as he gripped his rifle and fired at the next German who seemed to pop out of nowhere.

They'd only advanced a hundred yards, but it was valuable ground they made as their rocket launchers targeted the panzers. Once, a hatch opened, a German helmet popping out as the panzers lifted off the ground.

"I've got him!" Compton shouted as he fired and hit the German in the head. Compton was seventy yards away. So they kept up their barrage, with him, Linklater, Miller, Davis and Compton picking off the enemy at distances of seventy to hundred yards.

Their regiment was assisted by the 2nd and the 11th, men of daring who charged, fired, destroyed the enemy, some getting hit themselves. Shakes...poor Shakes died. They were damned good buddies and had been together since McClellan. He'd sobbed like a baby when Captain Miller held the dying soldier.

Five long days of sustained fighting, retreating at night deep into the countryside to bivouac in tents. It was summer, the heat was stifling and after the first night, the stench of decaying bodies rose up over the town of Vidouville. They'd had to do something with the bodies of the German soldiers strewn around the town. The locals had done what they could, but it was a small town, more a village than anything else. The Germans had used it to base their great panzer division there. That was destroyed, but the stench only got worse.

Occasionally shots rang out at night as the sentries on duty alerted them and short salvos could be heard in the distance. On the first night, Captain Miller had banged Edelman's ears because he'd been smoking.

"You want to tell the whole German regiment where we are? Your cigarette looks like a lighthouse from here!"

Poor fool Edelman almost swallowed his cigarette so frightened he was. He'd heard the other privates say how Edelman looked liked he'd peed in his pants. Funny thing about irony, Longman thought. He smiled to himself. He'd never been the best student of his class, but irony was about the only word that had stuck in his brain after high school. Edelman and the other privates could kill the enemy without blinking an eye. Some, like the captain, used their bare hands to kill. Yet the captain could scare the holy crap out of them.

After the fourth night in the open, the fifth day followed with severe fighting and loss of life on both sides.

Longman closed his eyes briefly. He had wanted to gag the first time he'd seen one of their regiment hit by a drifting grenade. It was a messy affair of entrails, the poor corporal's body shredded. Others sustained bullet wounds to the head. There was little they could do for the fallen in the heat of battle, for hardly had they time to be distraught or shocked at seeing a comrade go down, than they had to defend themselves like mad.

On the afternoon of the sixth day, the enemy surrendered, most of their men dead or dying. Those who capitulated were disarmed. The rear-guard of militia - the field medics, the military police, the reservists - erected make-shift camps where they kept the prisoners of war. The war for them was over. They looked bedraggled, a faceless mass of men who had simply followed _Der Führer's_ orders.

On day six, the last of their own dead were buried outside the little town, the injured tended to by the medics. Davis had survived minor grazing of a stray bullet to his upper arm. Captain Miller got grazed clean above his left eyebrow and temple on the first day. The bandages were off, leaving a strange looking scar. Some of the soldiers would go home, for they had lost limbs in battle, others injured so badly, Longman thought they would never recover fully. Men like Davis and Captain Miller would continue the fight. He'd heard Miller barking at the medic, "I'm still able-bodied, godammit!" Davis had shouted, "I intend to see this war out, so fix my arm now!"

The town was strewn with dead Germans. They got word from Colonel Drake that they had to incinerate the bodies. Miller had nodded grimly, then he began barking orders.

They stacked four bodies side by side and on top of those another four crossways until they had a tall mound. Then they poured gasoline over the mound, for in the heat of summer the whole town began to reek of decomposed bodies. By that time the stench had become part of them. They didn't notice it anymore. What else could they do? The German leadership in Vidouville had fallen with the rest of their foot soldiers. It was the only way. And so, dotted along the base of the undulating hills of Vidouville, bodies of the dead were burned as a last rite.

Now Longman couldn't keep his eyes off the lone figure of Captain Miller standing atop Hill 183. When Miller at last made a move to come down, Longman sighed with relief. Maybe he was done "thinking" according to Lieutenant Davis.

His body still shook, the recent echoes of the battles that raged in and around the town for five days bouncing off his insides. Sometimes he had to viciously suppress the urge to throw up. He was beset by images that flashed like those of a photo essay, indelible prints that kept the original image obscured, one after the other in a never-ending stream - their men, his men, broken bodies, grenade explosions, tanks blown up, buildings blown up. War was unkind. The images reflected on the retina of his eye and burned into it a memory that would remain with him for life.

After Coumond, where they'd relieved the 1st Infantry Division, they'd received orders as he'd assumed correctly to go further south to Vidouville. They had to attack the Germans on the ground, helping the 101st Airborne fighter planes counter the enemy attacks.

Vidouville. So much bloodshed, so much loss of life.

He'd seen Shakes Cruikshank die on the first day of skirmishes. One of his finest men, newly promoted to Private First Class, had run next to him down a narrow lane as they fought off German soldiers. They'd used any means to get at them - stealth, cunning, using the natural contours of the undulating hills, the roads, the back paths, the buildings.

"Cappy, I never killed a man!" Cruikshank shouted.

"You're facing the enemy, for Godsakes, Private. It's his life or yours!"

They were four who advanced down a narrow path. Cruikshank had his back to Miller, covering the entrance to the lane. The Germans appeared suddenly from doorways and side lanes, surprising his men although he had expected such attacks. Northern Ireland had drilled advanced tactical training into the regiments, yet they were shocked by the Germans who countered just as easily.

"Fire!" he'd shouted. One by one they'd found their targets, the soldiers' blood squirting from their bodies and spattering formless graffiti against walls of buildings.

They'd thought they had them all trapped in that alley when suddenly from a rooftop a German soldier aimed his rifle at them.

"Watch out!" he screamed and dived, pulling Longman with him into an empty barn. Compton fired, but not before the German had fired first. With a cry he saw Cruikshank go down. At the same time the German tumbled from the roof, dead before he hit the ground.

He'd rushed into the alley again and dragged Cruikshank' body inside the doorway. Blood spurted from an open chest wound, spurting in his face, against the wall.

"Captain..."

Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. The young soldier's eyes had begun to glaze. With a sinking feeling Miller knew Cruikshank wasn't going to make it.

"Hey, don't talk, buddy." Miller opened the bloodied front of the jacket, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his bare hands. He wanted to scream at the soldier not to die, but he'd seen death before, an oldster in an alley in downtown Detroit. Cruikshank's life was ebbing out of him.

"My mama..."

"You are a hero, Cruikshank. We'll tell her that, okay? A hero, you hear me?"

Cruikshank tried to grab his shirt front, but his hands were lifeless. "Tell..." he started. He gave a bloodied gasp, then his body stilled. It was all over.

Miller closed the young man's eyes, remained kneeling by his side. Only then he heard Longman and Compton sobbing behind him. How could he tell them not to be upset or weep?

"He was my best buddy," Longman said.

"What do we tell his mama?" asked Compton.

How indeed, would they inform mothers, wives, sisters that a son, a husband, a brother died a hero in battle? How? They had to leave Cruikshank's body in that barn and continue fighting.

They suffered many casualties. The American dead had been buried in the cemetery outside the town. The men had made wooden crosses, with the soldier's name and rank on the cross. Later those crosses would be replaced by white gravestones. Their tags had been removed, held for safekeeping by the medical corps.

So much blood, so much death and destruction, the Germans suffering heavier casualties, surrendering eventually on the afternoon of the sixth day. And yet, Miller thought, it was only the beginning of their offences. They had to remain strong, fight, stay alive. War for them was just beginning.

Slowly he made his way down Hill 183 and joined Davis, Compton, Longman and Baxter, their radio-man.

 _June 17 1944_

 _Dear Charlie_

 _I hope this letter will reach you. It gets more difficult to send mail to the armed forces and to receive letters from the front._

 _Of course, if you are reading this letter, we assume you are alive and well and kicking some Jerry's butt over there._

 _Some news from the home front. Mama married Doctor Wachinski. She says at 55 there's still life in her, she's not over the hill. She'll draw the line at child-bearing though. After three of us, she's had enough, she says._

 _Little Evan is growing. He cried a lot especially after you left, but Mama says he's mostly calmed down now. At two he is a fast talker, a fast everything, it seems, according to Mama and Doctor Wachinski. She adores little Evan who calls her Grammy and Doctor Wachinski Grampy. Our little Charlie does too. Did you know Doctor Wachinski's name is Henry?_

Charles sat bolt upright when he read that part, grinning to himself. Their father's name was Henry. What were the odds of marrying again, a person bearing the same name as the previous spouse?

 _Fancy marrying another Henry!_

Yeah, just wait 'til I get home and kill him with my bare hands if he hurts a hair on her head, he muttered under his breath.

 _When you come home, don't kill poor Henry, okay? He's actually taking good care of Mama. She needs to be taken care of, you know? They love having Evan who seems drawn to water, Charlie. I honestly think both boys will become Olympic rowers, or Olympic something!_

 _I saw the Normandy landings on the latest newsreel. There was great loss of life among the Brits, Canadians and our own US army, but the Allied forces gained a valuable foothold into France by securing the beach heads._

 _By now you are probably in the heartland of France! Take care, my dear brother. You are an excellent leader. You weren't coxswain of Washington State and West Point for nothing! There is greatness in you._

Charlie rested the letter on his lap after reading the last paragraph, taking a deep breath as he gazed at the light of the lantern. It was the third time he had read the letter, yet this paragraph warmed his heart every time. Edward had finally buried his old rancour at being unable to join the armed forces, climbing the military ladder, fighting on the front. Charlie felt good. He discerned none of the bitterness of Edward's previous communications, however subtle his brother had made it sound. He had forgiven Edward for marrying Lucy. It had been hard accepting that Lucy had chosen Edward, but time had healed his battered heart and dented ego. He was happy for them both, and even happier when they decided to name their second child for the sister they had lost.

 _Winonah is starting to walk now and looks a lot like little Charlie and Evan. Our Native American heritage is running strong in our family!_

 _Please write back soon and let me know if you've found out anything about the mysterious Katrine du Pléssis, will you?_

 _God be with you in these times_

 _Love_

 _Edward_

Charlie folded the letter and carefully slid it back in its envelope. He had read it a few times since he received it, whenever they had time, like now. No doubt other soldiers were reading letters from home too.

The men were completely exhausted and welcomed the rest, knowing the fight was over for now. While they had gained an important advantage by vanquishing the Germans, their battles were far from over. They now had access into the south, ironically, away from Paris. Free France was further south. There were several towns to be liberated, and many smaller villages.

He was alone in the tent with a kerosene lantern the only light. He needed sleep, but couldn't really rest. He wrote two letters, but even after that he remained restless. Davis would come in shortly after a game of cards with several of the other privates and officers. They liked him. Charlie grinned. Robert usually acted as go-between whenever the men were too scared to approach him themselves.

He had to admit he hadn't given much thought to searching for Katrine du Pléssis. She was a civilian and not high on his list of priorities, his main one keeping his platoons alive. Sighing, he settled down to sleep, sliding into his mummy bag. Restless? He was sound asleep by the time Robert Davis entered the tent.

 **July 18 1944**

At 0900 the following morning Captain Charles Miller made his way to the cemetery where the American soldiers were laid to rest. He knew that it would most likely be the last time he'd visit this part of the world. Vidouville would forever be remembered for the graveyard of the soldiers who had given their lives to liberate France.

Jacob "Shakes" Cruikshank was one special soldier. He been posted to the 5th Infantry Division in 1940 and had been a member of Miller's regiment since then. Cruikshank was like a naughty younger brother, but as well a soldier hardened by life. Charlie knew the official channels would be informing Cruikshank's mother, but he had written her a letter last night. Hopefully she would receive it.

Miller stopped in front of a cross, the one on which Compton had stuck the red diamond taken from Cruikshank's uniform. His name was carved neatly on the cross, along with his regiment number.

"You are in a good place now, Jacob," Miller murmured softly.

Charlie felt the anger rise in him, thinking about Winonah and Lansing who had died, leaving behind a little boy. The world was a crap place, he decided. No one was exempt from the tragedy of loss, from the will of a Higher Being to die at this time or that time, any age, any race, any creed, any class. His sister and her husband were still so young, they'd had the world at their feet.

Then suddenly. They were gone forever.

One moment Shakes Cruikshank covered the entrance to the alley. The next moment he went down. Charlie'd managed to pull Longman out of harm's way. Compton had been fast, but not before Jacob was shot. Miller remembered the cigarette always dangling form the side of Cruikshank's mouth, a memory that would always stay with him.

"Rest in peace, Shakes Cruikshank," Charlie said softly as he saluted the fallen soldier. When he looked up, he saw other infantrymen and officers standing by other graves, saying their last goodbyes to their fallen comrades.

When he returned to the base, he was surprised to see Colonel Drake waiting for him. Next to him stood Colonel Steinbauer and Ian Baxter with the radio equipment. Baxter saluted him, and he greeted Drake and Steinbauer in a stiff salute.

"Captain Miller, I have some news you might like," Drake began. "You sounded mighty disappointed during my last radio communication in St. Mere Eglise. Don't think I don't know! Well, now it seems you got your wish. The Fifth Infantry Division - our Red Diamonds - have been assigned to the Third Army. Do you know what - "

Captain Charles Anson Miller felt his heart give an unnatural lurch. He saluted again for good measure and smiled.

"We're serving under General George S. Patton!"

"Yes. Amen. Now for your new assignment. We have just received word from Allied High Command. Rather strange message. Seems they want the 10th regiment - your men, Captain - to divert before you join the Third Army - "

"Sir?"

"Special dispensation. A German garrison is stationed at a town called St. Clair. You are to advance there and liberate the town."

"St. Clair?"

"Yes, Captain. They have a strong Resistance movement there, but they need Allied relief. I understand the leader of that resistance cell is a woman who is on good footing with AHC. Good luck on your mission."

Charles Anson Miller stood still for long seconds as he watched Drake and Steinbauer leave. He didn't know what pleased him more - being part of Patton's Third Army or liberating a town called _St. Clair_. He had a sudden yearning to be back in Detroit rowing with Edward on a lake called St. Clair.

END CHAPTER SIX


	8. Chapter 8

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My thanks to all who of offered comments. I appreciate it very much.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Coeur de Lion - July 1944

The _Coeur de Lion_ was alive. People came to eat, to drink, to listen to sultry songs with piano accompaniment. Some came to relax with a glass of wine after a hard day's work and forget about all their troubles. Others came to while away the time because they had little else to do. There were those who came on pre-arranged trysts, imagining that their presence or their intention was not known to anyone. St. Clair was a large town but small compared to cities such as Marseille or Toulon or Le Havre. Even so, the _Coeur de Lion_ was perhaps the last place to have a clandestine meeting.

There was a quiet, efficient scurrying between the tables as waiters dipped and balanced trays carrying escargot and wine from the estate of St. Clair. They had to ensure that not a drop of the precious _Chateau Latour_ or, for those who preferred, Lanzerac Rosé or bourbon, was spilled. After all, the clients were willing to part with their francs and Reichsmark for a full glass. They also braved those clients who demanded their money's worth for their food while listening to Solange de Neuf seductively crooning her latest Cole Porter or Irving Berlin song. She was a popular songstress, and day by day her repertoire expanded as she tried out the latest songs.

Katrine du Pléssis's mouth curved into an unwilling smile as she looked around her establishment. For a moment - a moment only, she conceded - she could pack her troubles in her old kit bag and smile. It was an old English song her Uncle Henri had sung when she was still very young. Pack up her troubles. It sounded so easy, without complications to momentarily put aside the burdens of her life and postpone her misery.

Misery could be packaged in a smile. That way no one could gain access, however small the aperture, into her life. A moment only and she could believe that the world she had created inside the _Coeur de Lion_ was a perfect world in which men and women enjoyed themselves. A world where lovers met and argued. A world where deals were struck, even simple ones like negotiating the payment of the next bag of rice and ignoring the irony of sitting in a smoke filled restaurant discussing their privation. A world where there was indeed no war, no defeat, no armistice, no victory, despite the presence of German military.

Tonight they appeared effusive, occasionally bursting into raucous laughter, slapping their thighs as they enjoyed some joke told at their table, or sang a ribald drinking _lied_ while Solange was between songs. Sometimes they applauded as Solange eased effortlessly into _Cheek to Cheek_.

Katrine's smile became grim. They could afford to be effusive. It was the hallmark of the conqueror. After they conquered the town, what else was there but to take pleasure in the kill? It played games with the hapless, throwing them around then suddenly, swiftly, the final thrust.

The Germans were in the position of being, like Richard III, in a giving vein, a platform from which they could command with disdain and not fear reprisal while extending generosity of a kind. The conqueror's whip was in their hands and they could, as the hour or the mood or the inclination suited them, be friendly, be generous, be pleasant and those on the receiving end of that deception could, for a few moments at least, enjoy the illusion of peace. With Richard, they had something in common - the ability to make venom taste like wine. The wilful seduction of the untrained in which the victim actually believed the enemy could be viewed through tinted glasses so that they no longer appeared evil. The uniform bearing the insignia of the Iron Cross became just another apparel of attractive regimentals. Still, anything remotely Teutonic clomping down the cobbled lanes in heavy boots elicited nothing but fear in the hearts of the people of St. Clair.

Katrine made few concessions to their humanity, for they had none. Dehumanisation was hidden behind their effusive smiles and counterfeit friendliness. They were never to be trusted, and on their own level, even their own terms, must be out-witted, outsmarted, so as to hit back at them with great cunning. A snake clothed like a snake would have been viewed with distrust and fear accorded it out of habit and tradition, but clothed like the fighting mongoose, it could sometimes be hailed as seductive, persuasive, victorious, easily overcoming the oppressed and appearing reasonable. Katrine sighed at that thought. One day the oppressed would become the indomitable mongoose and fight to the death its victor. Perhaps, she thought, France, through the thousands of men and women willing to lay down their lives for her freedom, already possessed the steel and heart of the determined mongoose. At heart, Katrine believed, France had not surrendered. Her government did.

 _"If I give you the moon,_

 _you'll grow tired of it soon…"_

Solange crooned the words in her sultry voice, the men sitting closest to her listening with their tongues hanging out like panting dogs. They were about to spill their wine, so lost they were. A neat camouflage if ever there was one. Solange was hypnotic and could spin them into a trance. Afterwards she'd look disdainfully at them and declare that men were weak.

Tonight was one of their quiet nights. Quiet in the absence of any activities that would have given the German officers reason to suspect yet another act of subversion, another cunning ploy at diverting the enemy under the guise of keeping the war outside. Katrine cringed at that. It could be a look, a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a book, a camera, the label on a bottle, a note, any small item that could hide something - a code, message, intelligence.

The Germans were a suspicious bunch but she kept one step ahead of that suspicion, allaying the smallest doubt with her sweet smile, expansive gestures and the easy charm she'd cultivated over the past two years for them. She was affable when she interceded in a pending spat, welcoming new patrons with her now favourite directive, "leave the war outside". Also, Katrine's ingenuity in devising more and more creative ways of relaying or receiving critical intelligence to and from Allied High Command or just acquiring another piece of communications equipment was what had kept them alive and still working without being suspected. The _Coeur de Lion_ was, after all, a place of hidden talents. As long as she smiled, Solange seduced them with her voice, Lamine kept the wine flowing, they were relatively safe. It did not, however, quell the ever present threat of the military presence. That was always there, however understated.

"Leave the war outside."

It was easy to mouth, she thought. So easy. Yet, with the best will in the world, she couldn't append any earthly and heartfelt conviction to them. How could it when the war was right here, in St. Clair, in the _Coeur de Lion_ in the form of uniformed men who, despite their wide grins and brash laughter at one moment, could in the next be brutal butchers in the name of a herrenvolk ideal they believed in. Yes, she sighed softly, the war was here, in her sweet _Coeur de Lion_ , her precious St. Clair, her beloved France.

For now she graced them with her charm and waltzed between the tables on her way to join a patron here, engaged in light-hearted chatter there. Tonight she was dressed in her white tuxedo, her favourite attire. She knew she looked good, and to confirm that thought, she raised her hand to touch her auburn hair, feeling its softness, the wavy texture the latest she had seen in a movie magazine called _Variety_ when she looked at a picture of Susan Hayward.

" _Katrin_."

She stiffened a fraction, too little for anyone to have noticed. But she knew the voice, knew the particular Germanic inflection given to her name. Staccato, second syllable short and sharp. The voice was rich, - like an actor's - smooth, much smoother than she would have credited the person of Herr Kommandant Jürgen Schult. Katrine turned to look at the man sitting alone at a table. Always alone when he was in the _Coeur de Lion_. Ruggedly handsome, his hair very blonde and his eyes green, he was holding a cigarette in his hand and a spiral of smoke wafted from him as he spoke. His mouth curved into a smile. Her heart thundered and she hoped no one noticed her slight pause or the flush to her cheeks. In December, Jürgen Schult had replaced Herr Kommandant Klaus Wassermann as the new commanding officer of the German occupied forces in St. Clair, a duty he - in his own words - performed to the letter for _Der Führer_. "All other pleasures are my own, _Katrin_ ," he told her imperiously one evening when…. She shut her thoughts from the direction they were forcing, pulling herself to keep looking at the man and appear for all the world the smiling hostess of the nightclub and restaurant _Le Coeur de Lion_.

"Herr Kommandant," she gushed. "I thought you might not grace us with your presence tonight - "

"Katrin, call me Jürgen." He smiled at her, and she heard the veiled command in that smooth voice.

"Only when it's not official business, Herr Kommandant."

Jürgen Schult's hand shot out and he gripped her wrist. It appeared aggressive but his touch was surprisingly gentle. There was a gleam in his green eyes as he appraised her. Katrine marvelled again at this man and what he was doing. No one noticed anything, the little tableau important to no one but them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lamine, the bartender, cock an eyebrow. She gave a mental shrug. He would notice. Bartenders noticed and listened. Jürgen pulled her so that she sat down on the chair opposite him. She grit her teeth.

"But we never have official business, do we, Katrin?"

"Whatever it is, Herr Kommandant, I take little pleasure in exchanging with you…" Her voice trailed away, forcing her smile to remain in place. Katrine wondered idly why he had singled her out for his attention from the first minute he stepped into the _Coeur de Lion.._

"We exchange it nonetheless…"

"With the few choices I have, " she returned, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice, "you don't leave me much room, do you?"

She turned to steal a quick glance at the other patrons, the smile never leaving her face. Her hair bounced as she moved and when Katrine looked at Jürgen again, she saw how his green eyes smouldered.

"You know my pleasures, Katrin," he whispered, his tone low enough, the smile appearing as if they were discussing weather patterns. Jürgen took another puff of his cigarette, blowing the smoke slowly in her face. She noted the French brand he was smoking and thought that they poached everything French. A vain, if hedonistic view of finding things not theirs far more pleasurable to indulge in. They called others art their own. Jürgen was a man of culture, a concession Katrine made only because she needed to know her adversary fully to understand the way he operated and to pit her own cunning against his. She was growing tired, so tired of keeping one step ahead of this man who could in another time, another place have been a man worthy of knowing. Now, she had to go along, even if it meant…

"You're very fond of music, Herr Kommandant. I'll grant you that," she said softly, trying to change the direction of the conversation.

"Call me Jürgen," he commanded again, leaning forward so that his face was close to hers.

"As the Officer Commanding of your unit here in St. Clair, Herr Kommandant, I accord you the necessary protocol of addressing you. I cannot - "

"That's not what you said two nights ago, Katrin. Now, do you remember?"

She remembered. Only, she didn't want to think about it. She had already lost so much, too much. Her beloved Joseph and Célestine were gone. Jürgen knew only too well how to use her memories of them as leverage to get what he wanted. He was smart, aware of his own power to use excessive force with her. All he needed was the suggestion of a threat which, however much he veiled it, she knew he could carry out as the whim suited him. But then, Jürgen Schult was not a man of whims. With his cunning, he knew which buttons to push; with her cunning, she could remain dry-eyed and no one, least of all Jürgen Schult, could see her heart weeping. Beneath the handsome exterior and his aristocratic bearing, he was hard as steel, a coldblooded killer if provoked.

"Jürgen," she finally relented, ignoring his reminder, "the other patrons need my attention."

His mouth twisted into a smile, the flash in his eyes the only sign that she had crossed him. Katrine wanted to rub his face in the dirt. She felt like shooting a bullet through his handsome head and enjoying his surprise as his head exploded. For the moment he was in control and enjoying her discomfiture. His hand reached for hers again, a brief touch this time, but no less threatening. She evaded his penetrating gaze, a fleeting, though intense, look he gave her.

"Tonight, Katrin."

His message was clear.

"Not now, Jürgen."

"Mahler or Wagner?"

"Forget it."

Her chair scraped as she moved abruptly to rise, causing Solange to glance lazily in her direction. Solange offered a smile then continued with her next song.

 _"When we're out together_

 _dancing cheek to cheek…"_

The _Coeur de Lion_ was a restaurant, and a good one too, considering the lack of variety in their fare as a result of strict rationing. Right now it was certainly not heaven. But Solange was deliberate as she mouthed the words and caught Katrine's eye at the same moment. Katrine made a mental note to check Solange and then reprimand her. The woman was sometimes too subtle for her own good. Katrine didn't look back at Jürgen Schult as she made her way to the other tables. She stopped by old Jean-Pierre Beaumont, one of her oldest patrons and Brigitte's grandfather, a kindly gentleman who asked:

 _"Êtes-vous bien, ma petite?"_

She took issue on the "petite", but felt her spirits lift as she touched old Jean-Pierre's shoulder. When last did anyone call her by that endearment? A lifetime ago, it seemed, when Joseph called her and Célestine that. Katrine smiled and allowed his concern to wash over her for a moment. A luxury, as she had little time to worry about how concerned others were for her safety. But clearly some people did notice her little tête-à-tête with Jürgen Schult and old Jean-Pierre, who was like a second father to her, had picked up on the vibes so quickly. She sighed. It was one of the hazards, if not her major pain at the moment, of living, working and running a restaurant and nightclub in St. Clair. Jean-Pierre was still staring at her, waiting for her to allay his fears, she surmised.

" _Je suis très bien_ , Jean-Pierre."

It gratified her immensely to see the old man nod, his eyes almost closing as he smiled. It was so easy to please some people. So easy to convince the old man she was okay. Now, if it were Brigitte asking that question.

"Brigitte will see you later tonight, Katrine," Jean-Pierre said as if he read her thoughts.

"Tell her I may be held up, Jean-Pierre."

"I will tell her, but my granddaughter will not understand, ma petite."

No, she wouldn't, Katrine thought. Brigitte hated Jürgen Schult. She hated what she knew he was doing to Katrine, and that made her all the more determined to see the Germans leave St. Clair, see them beaten and bludgeoned to death. Preferably to enjoy lining up Jürgen and his cohort, Lieutenant Heinz Welthagen, against a wall and spraying them with bullets. Welthagen had made a beeline for the fiery Brigitte when they arrived in St. Clair. Brigitte fell for his charms, not aware that while she could gain important intelligence from him, he was doing the same with her. She'd become pregnant, a situation that had her cousin Berry fuming so much, he threatened to kill Brigitte himself. He'd reproached her for falling once again for _foreigners_ , and ignoring the fact that there was only one person in all of St. Clair who loved her beyond his own life and bicycles. The young woman was left high and dry by Welthagen who'd denied the child was his, then promptly took another young St. Clair woman to his bed.

Every time some Germans walked past Brigitte, she'd call them "You Prussian _batards_!"

Katrine had to get her people together very soon. Tomorrow morning if possible. There was no way she could meet with them tonight, not after Jürgen's promise. They had to get another message to Allied High Command. They needed help desperately. A regiment of Allied troops would rout the enemy once and for all and send them packing. News of the Allied invasion in Normandy had been greeted with delight, but for them in St. Clair and other towns just outside Free France, things seemed to move too slowly. She knew through Berry Beaumont, Brigitte's cousin, that cities like Toulon, Lille, Orléans and Caen had been liberated by the Allied forces but paid the price with great loss of civilian life.

The German regiment stationed in St. Clair had taken the news of the Normandy invasion with their usual arrogance if not complacency, and declared that Germany's 352nd Panzer Division alone would counter the offensives of Field Marshall Montgomery and General Eisenhower. She knew a panzer division was stationed at Vidouville.

With their limited radio communications, it was going to be difficult to contact the Allied High Command again, but she'd rather struggle with her group and risk everything than the prospect of giving Jürgen Schult any pleasure. And tonight…She didn't want to think about it, forcing her smile back as she replied finally:

"I have work to do, Jean-Pierre. You understand that, don't you?"

There was understanding in his eyes, Katrine noted. She wanted to hug him, as well as allow herself to have a good cry. She hadn't done that since…forever. But for now, she had to feed on the old man's deep understanding. It had to be enough for her.

Katrine moved away from him, giving his shoulder another gentle squeeze as she made her way to the bar. Claude had just launched into the first bars of "Moonlight becomes you" which elicited cries and whistles of satisfaction from the patrons. They obviously loved Solange's rendition of the song. Lamine was industriously shining glasses, an occupation he quickly adopted the moment Katrine walked towards the counter. Katrine grinned, allowing the moments of unease with Jürgen Schult to wash from her. She relegated Jürgen to the back of her mind where she hoped he would vanish as the evening progressed.

It was still relatively early and she intended to be the perfect hostess even though her insides were churning with worry.

Lamine Bhoutayeb tried to pretend he didn't notice her little run-in with Jürgen Schult. They had been friends since Paris. For a moment Katrine stalled as she allowed old memories to fill her. If it weren't for Lamine, she would have gone crazy. For a while she had been demented. He had literally saved her life after Joseph and Célestine had been taken from her. A thousand times she regretted going out to the country that day to hide art works. A thousand times she wished she'd taken Célestine with her. After months of searching, Lamine had simply pulled her into his embrace and told her, "We live to fight another day, Katrine."

It was strange, Katrine thought, that France's colonies were the last to fight when the Vichy government had already signed France over to the enemy, so to speak. Lamine considered a bullet wound in the leg no price at all when his regiment was crushed by the Germans.

Katrine had been frantic, knowing what fate awaited her husband and daughter. Her distraught "where are you taking them?" fell on deaf ears as they shoved Joseph and a screaming Célestine into the truck. Lucien Blériot had yelled, "They are Jews!" She had no recollection of the events which followed as Blériot struck her with the butt of his rifle.

If it hadn't been for Lamine…

Now he looked at her with concern, pausing the rapid movement of cloth and glass.

Katrine pressed her palms on the counter.

"I know what you're thinking, Lamine."

"Then you should know, Katrine, your _tête-à-tête_ with Kommandant Schult bodes no good." Lamine put down the too shiny glass, contemplated taking the next one and be industrious again, then decided against it. "The _Chateau Latour_ should be good enough for Herr Kommandant, Madame, or shall we poison him?" Lamine's attempt at levity made her laugh. It sounded so incongruous for the normally staid, reserved friend whom she knew carried a heavy burden of surviving a massacre in which close friends and comrades-in-arms had died. He'd still never told her what he'd done those few days he was gone, just before they left for St. Clair.

"Tonight's off, my friend. The earliest we meet will be tomorrow. Get everyone together, will you?"

"Katrine, I am indeed sorry," Lamine said, nodding at the same time in acknowledgement of her instruction. His dark skin seemed pale, she thought, and she knew he was, as always, concerned for her safety. He knew the implication of the smoke Jürgen blew in her face, of the way Jürgen's hand had covered hers. Just as he'd sensed in the beginning when Jürgen Schult had looked at her too long when he first entered the _Coeur de Lion_. He knew that the arrogant German held her hostage as surely as if Jürgen had taken a knife and pressed it against her neck.

Katrine shrugged. "We have work to do, Lamine."

" _Oui_ , Madame…"

Solange finished with:

 _"Hold me close and hold me fast_

 _the magic spell will last_

 _This is la vie en rose_

 _When you kiss me, Heaven sighs_

 _And though I close my eyes_

 _I see la vie en rose…"_

It was long past twelve when Katrine finally stood in her lounge. The evening had been a success despite the minor rumblings. They had earned enough money tonight to make a few important purchases. Had it not been for the minor rumbling, she might have enjoyed herself, but her evening had been clouded by Jürgen's veiled threats.

Now, all she wanted to do was play some music, lie back and relax. In a macabre way she wished she had the kind of selection Jürgen Schult had. The one time she had been in his quarters - a rather clever way in which she had been encouraged to visit him there - she had seen his impressive collection of records. It was the one common interest they had. Katrine summarily dismissed any thought that there could be anything else. There was nothing. He was a Prussian, as he liked to put it, and she was French, with all the diversity of their nationalities between them. He was the oppressor, the Occupier, and she the oppressed, the subjugated. By the very nature of this relationship between victor and vanquished, he had the upper hand, and given his disposition, Jürgen Schult could play her like a harp. She hated it and wished with great fervour that this war would end, that the conquerors be conquered, and their glory turned to dust. That wish lay in her heart, mostly just beneath the surface, a constant, burning desire that one day she'd be free and her country whole again.

She stood at the mantle piece and studied the two pictures. One of Célestine and one with Joseph holding a laughing, happy child. Joseph appeared happy, she thought, with none of the constant drawn looks that marred him in the two years before he was taken. He had been constantly worried, constantly on his guard. His worst fears materialised when the front door of their home in Paris was kicked down. They had no time to flee, no time to prepare, to say goodbye… nothing.

Even now she could hear Joseph's anguished directive, "Katrine, save yourself!" Célestine had stood next to him on the truck, screaming "Maman! Maman!". In those first months, after their fruitless search for Joseph and their daughter, she'd often wondered why he'd shouted that she save herself. Did he know in those moments he was never going to see her again? Did he know that he would surely die? That both he and Célestine would be lost to her forever?

She'd lashed out at Lucien Blériot, calling him Vichy filth before he'd struck her. Blériot was a Vichy sympathiser and collaborator, therefore scum, a turncoat, a traitor in the eyes of the Resistance. He had smarted from the moment Katrine had broken off her engagement to him when she fell in love with Joseph Blumenthal, a kind-hearted, no-nonsense doctor who just happened to be Jewish. Love and mutual trust were the defining factors that sealed their marriage and gave them a daughter who from the earliest showed extraordinary proficiency in playing the violin. Lucien Blériot had harboured a deep, constant dislike for the choice she had made in not just marrying another man, but a Jew at that.

Little Célestine became a casualty of the war, like so many thousands of children. After all attempts to search for husband and child through various official channels, their own indefatigable efforts led them eventually to a forest clearing where they discovered to their horror that many detainees, Joseph and Célestine included, were shot dead by German soldiers, the rest loaded on the cattle trucks. By that time, the bodies found there were already so badly decomposed that it was impossible to identify Joseph. They found the decomposed remains of a child. Célestine... Months later Lucien Blériot brought official confirmation that Joseph and Célestine were shot dead.

She had been demented, hardly noticing how quiet Lamine had become. Quiet, harbouring an inner rage the level of which even she, Katrine, had not suspected.

Sighing, Katrine touched the face of Célestine. She would have been nine years old in September. The child smiled at her with her bright, open face, shiny eyes, clear, healthy skin and dark auburn hair like her own. Célestine had been only seven then. Seven years old, shot dead in an isolated forest clearing near a railroad. Katrine felt something build inside her, a tide of grief that swelled and hurt her insides. She clutched her bosom and gave a cry of pain. Then with a sudden jerk she moved away from the mantelpiece and walked to the table where the old phonograph stood, fighting back the tears of a thousand aches she'd vowed never to shed.

Carefully she lifted the arm of the phonograph and settled it on the record. The strains of the music filled the room. Thin sounds of horns and trombones, moving counterpoint over the first few bars. The burn in her heart of moments before subsided as she gave herself over to the music that filled the room. Better, she thought, to drive memories of her husband and child out with force where images of smiling faces, of bright laughter and soft, tender murmurings of comfort couldn't hurt. One day, when all this was over, she would afford herself the luxury of crying for them.

Katrine gave a sigh of pleasure, then ran her fingers through her hair, shaking it loose. Only here, in her home, could she let her hair down, kick off her pumps, dig her hands into the pockets of her pants, sing her favourite " _La vie en rose_ " and perhaps, think of tomorrow. Her mouth twisted into a smile. Tonight Solange had been on her mettle, finishing the evening with Edith Piaf's great song. Solange knew how she, Katrine, loved the song and most evenings, when she was in the mood for it, she would croon exactly like the "Little Sparrow" as she entertained the patrons.

She slid the tuxedo jacket off and dropped it on the couch, then jerked round when there was a sharp staccato-like knock on the door. Her heart hammered wildly for a few seconds. Steeling herself, Katrine walked to the front door, her hand trembling as she turned the knob. Not for Jürgen Schult the uncouth way of opening her door and stepping inside as if he owned her place. He didn't need to do that.

He stood on the threshold, still dressed in his uniform. He removed his cap and clasped it under his arm.

A perfect gentleman. Katrine had a moment to think of the irony of the situation. He was here to reaffirm his Franco-Prussian relations with her. Tonight he would be in her bed and he'd stay there till the early hours of the morning, when duty to _Der Führer_ called him to the German Headquarters. But now, Jürgen Schult stood with a calm, wicked twist to his mouth as he spoke.

" _Guten Abend_ , _Katrin_."

He always gave the Germanic inflection of her name. Short, staccato second syllable.

"Get out, Schult," Katrine commanded, then moved to put some distance between them, her back to him.

"Not when you're playing my favourite symphony. You chose well tonight, _L_ _iebchen._ The First Symphony. Mahler will not be disappointed. Neither will I…"

Jürgen Schult's words drifted away on a hoarse note as he stepped inside. Katrine looked too beautiful for him to ignore her tonight. He hated it that she could, without trying, create instant chaos inside him. Perhaps it was good that she did not know this. She hated him, he knew, hated that only his position here in St. Clair could get her where he wanted her. All he had to do was put her against a wall for whatever subversive activities he could concoct against her, or have her indicted as a traitor to her government. It was so easy. It was too easy, he thought. Now, she could protest all she wanted to. It was Katrine du Pléssis's way of offering resistance, of at least saying that she did try to banish Jürgen Schult from her bed.

A moment only his gaze stole to the mantelpiece where the framed photographs stood of her dead husband and daughter. The way her shoulder stiffened when he touched Célestine's picture was the merest reminder that he had a conscience or that he should have one.

Jürgen Schult ignored the angry sheen of tears in her eyes as he murmured her name.

" _Katrin_ …"

==/\/\==/\/\==/\/\==

 **19 July 1944**

Three days later, Katrine assembled her team in the _Coeur de Lion_. Although it was near mid-day, the restaurant was closed for business. They'd met every day trying to get intelligence to Allied High Command but with little success. Today was a last ditch attempt before their efforts alerted German command, which had lately been quiet.

Lamine stood next to her behind the counter. The back of the mirror revealed a map which they were busy studying. Jürgen Schult was forgotten for the moment. He hadn't been to her apartment since that last time, nor had she seen him and Heinz Welthagen in the restaurant the past three days.

Lamine had assured her it wasn't something she should be overly concerned about. Still, the German garrison's leadership missing from the restaurant for days left her to ponder on whether they suspected something was afoot. By now they must have been apprised of the advances of the Allied forces across France. Something was definitely happening in the German camp. Whatever it was, it certainly was not the withdrawal of the garrison from St. Clair. Their foot soldiers were still visible everywhere in the streets of St. Clair.

Katrine gave an inward sigh. They needed support from the Allied forces as soon as possible. Tomorrow if possible! She'd read of the massacre on the 10th of June when six hundred and forty two civilians in the village of Oradour-sur-Glane were brutally murdered by the Germans. They'd suspected a Resistance cell leader was being protected there. They didn't spare the men, women and children. They didn't spare the buildings. The village had been completely destroyed.

France wept.

She dreaded the thought of the Germans locking all the women and children in Saint Agnes Cathedral and setting it alight, locking the men in barns and killing them with machine guns, the way it had happened in Oradour-sur-Glane. No, it couldn't happen in St. Clair.

"Katrine."

She glanced distractedly at Lamine then pulled her attention to the present.

"This information is forty eight hours old," she said. "We need new intelligence. Brigitte? How are you coming along with the weather report?"

"Reception is weak. We need to strengthen it. Get an oscillator."

"Which is where, exactly?"

"German Headquarters," replied Berry. "You know the way there - "

Brigitte ignored Berry's comment, focusing on the coded message.

"I got it," Brigitte exclaimed. "The decryption sequence reads 'every fifth letter, every third vowel.'"

Katrine and Brigitte quickly decrypted the message. Minutes later Katrine gave a soft gasp.

"A.H.C. - Allied High Command," she murmured, a surge of joy filling her. "They're sending a regiment to St. Clair. The United States Fifth Armoured Infantry. A full company. They want us to disable enemy communications..."

"Finally, help is on its way," said Lamine.

After a few exclamations of joy, Katrine raised her hand. Everyone looked expectantly at her.

"Yes!" a voice suddenly piped up, ignoring Katrine's command, "now we can chase those _Allemands_ out of here. Better still, we line them all up in the town square and shoot them dead. Dead! Especially Schult and Welthagen. Then we can protect Katrine and Brigitte."

"I don't need protection," said Katrine with great conviction. "I can take care of myself."

She glared at Berry Beaumont who met her gaze with courage. The air was heavy with tension. Of course they knew what Schult did those nights he knocked on Katrine's door. Berry trained in the early hours of the morning, riding to the neighbouring towns. He must have seen Schult leaving her apartment.

"He is a snake, Katrine! And that - that other snake," he stammered, looking at Brigitte this time, "I do not like that _batard_ Welthagen!"

He was rewarded with a sound smack across the face from Brigitte whose eyes flashed with indignation.

"Brigitte! For you alone I shall turn the other cheek and take a kick in the rear if only to remind you that that _batard_ Welthagen is a filthy _chien_!"

"You just called him snake and now he's a dog!"

"He is all three!"

Brigitte lunged to strike Berry again while Lamine and Solange rolled their eyes.

"That's enough from you two!" barked Katrine. She was fast losing patience with Brigitte and Berry's ongoing fight. Berry loved Brigitte and Brigitte chose to ignore his devotion.

"He started it!"

"Children," Solange began, her voice tinged with hauteur. She was an important songstress and expected everyone to know that. "Enough!"

"Solange, you actually think we do not know what you do after hours behind Saint Agnes Cathedral? And with those _sales Allemands_?"

The next moment Berry stared down the barrel of the gun Katrine pulled from under the counter.

"Leave the war outside!" Katrine hissed. "If it weren't that you are a valuable member of my team, Berry Baumont, I'd shoot the snot from your nose."

"Excuse me," began Solange, who'd stepped forward to raise her hand against Berry, but was stopped by Brigitte this time.

"Back off, Solange," Brigitte said softly. "Katrine wouldn't hesitate to shoot you too."

"I only sing."

"Lamine..." Katrine said as she turned to look at him. Lamine knew what he had to do. Most of the time they were a solid team, but bickering and animosity were the enemies of unity. They could not afford discord of any kind, not when she knew there'd be trouble if Jürgen and his cohorts sensed what they were up to.

Lamine ushered Solange and Brigitte out of the _Coeur de Lion._ He would be apprising them of their mission. They would disable the Germans' radio communications. Brigitte was no longer a favourite of Welthagen who'd told her in no uncertain terms that she was just good meat and nothing else. She hated him enough to blow him up. With Lamine and Solange they formed a formidable trio pulling off a difficult job. Katrine had faith in them. While they fought among themselves one moment, the next they were a great team.

"And what about me?" asked a perplexed Berry Beaumont.

"I have a job for you," she said, a smile transforming her face.

When Katrine smiled at him, he could never help but smile in return. If it weren't that he loved Brigitte with all his heart and more, he would have fallen for the equally _petite_ and fiery Katrine. Still, she bowled him over every time she looked at him with those blue-grey eyes that sometimes, just sometimes, had a hint of sadness in them.

The German Headquarters in St. Clair was situated on the corner of Rue Viete and Rue Charpentier, with its entrance in Rue Charpentier. A small alleyway, Ruelle Corbeau, flanked the right side of the building. At 0300 the area was completely dark. No lights shone from any of the windows, except a very weak illumination from a room on the top floor. A silhouette against the light of that window would have indicated someone in the room, perhaps the commander of the garrison or one of his subordinates. St. Clair lay huddled in sleep.

Two figures approached the alley silently, one from the Rue Viete end. At the other end, another figure waited. The first person wore pumps, her shapely body accentuated by the lamé gown she wore. Her hair spun in long curls bouncing about her shoulders. Across the way in Rue Viete, inside a house, a figure stood by a window, the room lit by a candle as if she was holding a vigil in the dark. Perhaps the small light was a signal. Still, she remained motionless, although her eyes darted, checking for any movement up or down Rue Viete or particularly, Headquarters.

Brigitte Beaumont waited for Solange to disappear into Ruelle Corbeau. She knew Lamine was waiting at the Rue Evremonde entrance, making himself appear invisible. There was only one guard on duty. Their plan had to succeed. A communications cable was piggybacked on to the main electrical cable that ran about half a foot beneath the surface of the alley to the nearest pylon. If they could disable that, they'd at least be buying some time. Radio communications would be delayed a minimum of several hours. Since a United States regiment was on its way, Katrine was dealing in her own unique way of getting vital intelligence to them without using radio equipment and weather reports to decrypt messages..

Brigitte caressed her stomach, the first movement she'd made since she took up position in front of the window. She had three months to go before the birth of her child. Her sojourns with Heinz Welthagen inside Headquarters had given her a clear idea of the layout of the place, when she had managed to steal a plan of the building. In his inebriated moments, Heinz had let slip the vital information which was helping them now. She hated Welthagen as much as she hated Schult. She was not proud of what had happened to her but her unborn child was not going to suffer. Her child was French, and that was that. She couldn't change anything now, although Berry continued to make her life difficult by reminding her what a dog Welthagen was. She'd of course have to kill Berry too for making her life difficult by reminding her what a dog Welthagen was.

She loved Berry. Only, she didn't want him to know.

Sighing, she continued looking up and down Rue Viete for any suspicious movement.

At the entrance to the alley, Solange rose to her full height as she shook her hair It fell about her face, enhancing her rouged lips and her eyebrows which arched delicately. Even in the dark, the lone German sentry drew in his breath sharply.

He knew her. She knew him for she smiled deliciously at him. Did he not help her lift her skirts behind the Saint Agnes Cathedral two nights in a row? And other nights before that?.

" _Bonjour, Korporal..._ "

"Solange," he said, smiling as she sidled up to him. He squirmed and almost dropped his rifle. Torn between duty and lust, that little war raged only for a second or two before he moved in to kiss her.

"What brings you here at this hour?" he asked as the brief kiss ended.

She touched his chest, sliding her hand lower and lower down his body.

"Something only you can give me. Kiss me again..."

He leaned in to comply. The next moment Lamine grabbed him from behind, his arm a vise as he closed his hand around the corporal's mouth.

"Surprise," Solange whispered, seeing his eyes widen in shock.

The next moment, Lamine twisted his head deftly using his free hand. A soft crack was all that was heard. The soldier slumped to the ground. A few shudders and he became still.

From his ruck sack, Lamine removed a small garden shovel. Solange bent down with him.

"We must be quick," she said as she used her hands to help dig away the soil. When they hit something hard, Lamine sat up on his haunches. From his bag he pulled a pair of cutters and proceeded to cut the cable. A soft snap and it was done.

Very quickly they filled the hole again, pressing the soil firmly back in place.

"We have now hindered any future action in their communication with their High Command," whispered Lamine. "You have done well, Solange."

Although it was so dark, Solange de Neuf looked deeply into his eyes. She wanted to weep but dared not. How could anyone understand that her visits behind the cathedral were to gather intelligence? She'd given Katrine vital information about the munitions depot, what kind of arms they stored there, as well as the number of German soldiers in St. Clair. Her body was a sacrifice.

"You understand, Lamine," she stated simply.

"After tomorrow we shall talk again." There was confidence in his voice. He had been in awe of her beauty, struck by her intelligence, and quite unable to stop his insides from boiling whenever she sang.

"After tomorrow?" she asked.

"When the Americans arrive and help us rout these... _vermine_."

She touched his cheek gently. "We will talk."

So they proceeded to lift the dead German to a sitting position and propped him up against the wall so that it looked like he was sleeping on duty. That would give them extra time.

They sneaked out of the alley into Rue Evremonde and walked towards the end of the row of buildings until they turned into Rue Phillippe, going in a roundabout way back to the building where Brigitte was waiting for them.

Now they could at least sleep for an hour or two before dawn when they would meet with Katrine again.

Their job for the night was done.

 **Roadblock outside St. Clair - July 20 1944**

The next morning Berry Beaumont mounted his bike, a Gilles Rienne five gear model he'd used to train over long distances in the southern French countryside. He lived in the same building as Brigitte, a block from the _Coeur de Lion._ As he passed the restaurant, he waved to Katrine who stood by the window waving back. He thought he heard her mouth _Vive la France!_. So what if she did. He always imagined that was what everyone cried these days. Victory was like an electric current flowing through them, lighting up every part of their bodies, especially their eyes.

Victory was near. He could taste it.

He rode along the elegant, lazy curve of the main road, past the library and the wash-house on his left, and on his right the apartment buildings. Directly ahead of him was the stone fountain of the town square, and the statue of a lion in full pouncing stance. Then he passed the Cathedral of Saint Agnes where the road followed straight for a mile until he reached the outskirts of town. He grinned. One dark morning he'd spotted Solange in the grounds of the cathedral pulling up her skirts for an _Allemande_. Perhaps, he realised with hindsight, she was gathering intelligence.

He waved to the townsfolk already up and about, smelling the freshly baked bread all the way from Gilbert's bakery in Rue Fontaine. He wanted to scream at them not to worry, that help was on its way, that soon St. Clair would be delivered from the evil Herr Kommandant Schult and all his cohorts, especially that _batard_ Welthagen.

But he could not. He was dressed like he was riding in the _Tour de France_ , only there was no Tour except the poor relation the Vichy government called _France Road Cycle Tour_. He wouldn't want to wake up the sleeping Germans with screams of freedom and _Vive la France_. When he'd returned that year from the Olympics, Brigitte ran all over St. Clair with his gold medal hanging round her neck, telling everyone that her cousin Berry would win the Tour de France soon. He'd wait until the Germans were out of St. Clair permanently before riding the greatest cycle race on Earth. Damned _Allemands_!

It was going to be another hot summer's day. He had taken _Grand-mère's_ scarf, knotted each corner and used it as a cap. _Grand-mère_ would not miss any of her scarfs, since he and Brigitte always helped themselves to one whenever they had gone out riding in the countryside as children. When they returned late in the evening, she'd just cluck with annoyance, pull their ears and order them to go to bed without supper.

Berry saw the roadblock from a distance, his heart beating furiously as he slowly approached it. They always stopped him, confiscating anything he carried in his rucksack, whether he was leaving town or returning. He was ready for them, although they always made him a little nervous with their shouting and crude name calling.

Today he carried nothing, thank heaven. The two pockets in his cycling shirt were empty. He slowed down as he approached them.

" _Guten Morgen_!" he shouted cheerfully at the bleary-eyed Germans who manned the roadblock. In the morning there were usually only two or three at the most. It was the evenings when there were about five or six of them.

They greeted him brusquely, their faces unfriendly. They were waiting to be relieved by the next sentries. He and Katrine had planned it that he would reach the checkpoint just before the changeover.

" _Halt_!" cried the German on the left.

Berry stopped and got off, standing next to the bike. They searched him, passing disinterested hands over his torso and lower body. Nothing on his person - not in his racing shirt's pocket, not under _Grand-mère's_ hat, not inside his mouth. They lifted his shirt high over his torso to check for markings. They walked round the bike. The last time they'd taken his water bottle and emptied it, peering inside to see if there was anything like codes sticking to the bottom.

Then they removed the rubber from the handlebars and poked in there, throwing the covers on the ground when they found nothing. The second, less bleary looking German dislodged the bicycle pump from its bracket and began pumping, thinking he might hit an obstacle hidden inside. Nothing. They studied the rubber tyres looking for anything scratched on them, like _codes_. Nothing.

" _Zieh deine Schuhe aus_!"

So he kicked off both shoes and they looked under his feet, inside the shoes, lifted the soles and check for anything there. Nothing.

" _Sie können jetzt gehen_!"

"Thank you, thank you! I'll go now!" he said effusively as he put on his shoes and picked up the rubbers of his handlebars. They'd thrown out only half of the water from his water bottle this time. When he'd finished, he waited for the next salvo.

" _Wo gehst du hin_?"

"I am on my training run for the _France Cycle Tour_. It's long distances, see? I won gold for France in the Olympics in '36. I plan on winning this year, messieurs!"

"Be on your way, then, infidel!"

When he was about ten yards away, he muttered under his breath " _stupide_!"

Berry was glad to get away from them. They always gave everyone a hard time coming through the check point. He was about two miles away when he swerved onto a secondary dirt road and rode hard, praying that he wouldn't get a puncture.

He was flying through the countryside, mile after mile of vineyards and small villages until at last he hit the tarred road that gave his cycle some relief. Another thirty miles. He was losing time, judging by the height of the sun in the sky. He hadn't dared wear his watch. Last time they'd opened it to look for messages. Why couldn't they just give up?

He kept to the camber of the road, since there were no other vehicles for miles ahead of him. He was alone on the road; for once when he looked behind him, it was clear.

His thoughts strayed to Brigitte, who was pregnant with a _batard_ 's child. That _chien_ had denied the child was his. That made Brigitte mad, but she was also disillusioned.

"Now, Brigitte," he muttered to himself, "you might finally look upon your cousin who has loved you since you wore white ankle socks."

He pedalled faster just imagining Brigitte in white ankle socks.

"If you will ever let me, Brigitte, your child will be my child! I love you! I love your unborn child already! We'll call him _Charles_ , after General de Gaulle!"

He screamed the last words so that they echoed in the open countryside.

"I am going mad with love. _Mon Dieu_! Brigitte! I do all this for you. No, for you and all of France!" Berry released the handlebars and threw his arms up like a champion winning the yellow jersey. " _Vive la France! Vive la France_!"

For several yards he rode on the camber with his hands in the air. Only when he settled both hands on the handlebars again, he saw something like a mirage in the distance. It was moving in his direction.

Then Bertrand Beaumont, in love with cousin Brigitte since they rode their first bicycles into a ditch on the dirt road between St. Clair and Avignon, knew he was on the right road at the right time.

He pedalled faster and faster towards the mirage. As the convoy came into view, an American flag flapped lazily on the leading vehicle.

END CHAPTER SEVEN


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER EIGHT

 **Road to St. Clair - 20 July 1944**

The convoy snaked along the tarred road towards St. Clair. The first jeep was driven by Corporal Kerrigan, with three privates who held their rifles across their laps, their helmets deep over their heads. On constant alert, they were to warn the rest of any suspicious movement ahead.

Captain Miller and Lieutenant Davis sat in the second jeep driven by Corporal Elsevier. Next to Elsevier sat Linklater, promoted to Private First Class. Linklater too sat with his rifle across his lap, ready to fire. It was a further fifty five miles to travel south to St. Clair. Miller had been more than a little annoyed at being sent off their prescribed route to assist a resistance cell.

"When Patton's Third Army is waiting for us!" he'd blustered after recovering from the surprise Colonel Drake had sprung on him. He'd had time only to absorb the fact that the town was named the same as their lake in Detroit before reaction set in. But he was drilled to follow orders. Get in, get out and then advance to Paris. That was what he'd planned.

His company consisted of two platoons, totalling two hundred young infantrymen. They'd lost several of their regiment in the Vidouville combats, but he was determined not to lose a single soldier in combat when they entered St. Clair. Robert Davis commanded Platoon B while he took charge of platoon A. Their strengths were equally divided, though Longman had mumbled all the way to the trucks about not being with Captain Miller.

"That's not to say I don't like Lieutenant Davis, sir," he'd complained, then turned to Davis. "No offence, sir."

"None taken, Longman." Davis had given him a wide grin and slapped his shoulder hard.

The midday sun beat down on them, the heat stinging. The convoy was moving too slowly for Miller's liking. They were sweating in their battle gear, but dared not remove their helmets. Miller caressed the scope on his rifle without looking at Davis who sat next to him.

"So, what's with you and St. Clair?" Miller asked. "I noticed yesterday you looked quite surprised. I reckon your surprise differed from mine. What's up?"

"Hey, Elsevier, keep your eye on the road," Davis barked suddenly, trying to ignore Miller's question.

"Sorry, Lieutenant. Dying to hear your answer, sir."

Davis sat back against the seat and gazed ahead of him.

St. Clair. He'd been happy there. He hadn't wanted to leave.

"After graduating from high school my parents sent me to France. Summer vacation in St. Clair. I'd already decided to enter West Point, much to my father's displeasure. Then I met a girl."

"And you fell in love?"

"Her name was Brigitte. Fiery, dark curly top. I was eighteen, so was she."

"So what happened to Brigitte when you left St. Clair? I know you started at West Point same year I did," Miller said.

"I wanted her to return to America with me, to be safe, see? Lots of things were going on in Europe in '36."

"Nineteen thirty six. While you were trying to get Brigitte to leave her country for you, I was in Berlin, rowing for the United States."

"Leave her country for me, huh?"

"Yeah."

"That was exactly it," Davis said. "My patriotic hubris was greater than my common sense. I could no more encourage her to leave her country than she could order me to stay in France."

"That's it?"

"It was hard leaving, you know? We wrote for a while until the letters dried up."

Charlie thought how his relationship with Lucy failed because they were separated by continents most of the time. Letters didn't work.

"You're married. You fell in love with a nice girl back home."

Davis smiled, looking at Miller for the first time. Then he removed a booklet sealed with plastic and retrieved a photograph, showing it to Miller.

"Beautiful blonde haired, blue-eyed boys. They're twins?" Miller asked as he studied the photo.

"Yes. Andrew and Michael. My pride and joy, my life."

Charlie mulled over Davis's words. Life could treat one harshly, he thought. One had to be tenacious to rise above adversitiy.

"Yes," Miller said, "life happens, life is hard. When you're not near enough to your beloved on a permanent basis, you've got to accept that love dies out eventually, like green leaves in the sun after they fall from the tree."

There was a bitter edge to Miller's words but the feeling was gone quickly.

"You had a bad experience, Miller?" Davis asked as he filed the photo again.

"Maybe."

Which was a sign that the conversation was over. They'd only travelled twenty five miles but with the sun beating down on them, the heat was becoming unbearable.

Miller kept wondering about the resistance in St. Clair. What were their strengths? Did they have the manpower, the guns, the ammunition? Clearly not, if they'd asked for assistance. He supposed he'd probably meet up with Davis's erstwhile girlfriend who could very well be a resistance fighter.

Suddenly the first jeep slowed down dramatically. Elsevier braked hard not to smash into the front vehicle.

"What - ?"

"I see it, Captain."

Davis peered into the distance, as did everyone, it seemed. Like a mirage, the object appeared right in the middle of the road. Girlfriends, resistance and St. Clair were forgotten for the moment.

On the first truck behind their jeep, Compton rose to his full 6ft 6in height, disregarding the safety precautions laid down by the captain, and pointed to the mirage in the distance.

"Holy mackerel! It's a goddam cyclist in the middle of the goddam road!"

"Sit down, Compton!" Davis yelled. The soldier slumped back instantly on his seat.

"Now I can't see!" he complained.

"Don't worry, we'll tell you all about it," Miller shouted.

"Fat chance, Cappy!"

Kerrigan, driving the first jeep, stopped and looked back at Miller. Miller raised his hand, indicating that all vehicles grind to a halt.

"Let's see what happens."

"Curious. The cyclist is also slowing down," Davis remarked with a frown.

"It's our welcome wagon!" Compton shouted from the truck.

"By the looks of it, he's unarmed."

When the cyclist was about fifty yards from them, he raised his arms high above the handlebars, like a winner in a race, cycling slowly until he stopped a few yards from the first jeep.

"Where are you going, mate?" Kerrigan asked.

The cyclist dropped his hands on the handlebars and dismounted.

" _Bonjour!_ Who is your leader?" he asked.

Charlie Miller got out of the jeep and walked past the first vehicle, stopping in front of the cyclist.

"Who wants to know?" Charlie asked, but before the cyclist could respond, Davis also got out and came to stand next to Charlie. The cyclist's eyes widened.

"You!" he gasped. "You _foreigner_ , the one who can't say _tricolor_ with any reasonable accent!"

"Well, I guess you two know each other?" Captain Miller asked.

"Captain," began Davis, "this is Berry Beaumont, Brigitte's cousin."

"Ah, Brigitte!"

"Yes, Brigitte!"

"Leave her out of this, _foreigner_ ," Berry spat, then hissed his displeasure at seeing Robert Davis.

"Look, we are Americans in your land, therefore all of us are foreigners. You wanted to speak with me," Captain Miller stated.

"Are you in charge?"

"That I am. Captain Miller of the 5th Infantry Division." While Miller spoke, Berry could have cut Robert Davis with his glare. He clearly had unfinished business with Davis. "Speak to me!" Miller yelled at the unfortunate Berry Beaumont.

Berry jumped at the force of Miller's command, saluting the captain.

"I have a message for you, _Capitaine_."

"Okay, so let's hear it. I take it it's from your people in St. Clair."

"Alas, _Capitaine,_ I cannot give you the message verbally. I was searched at the roadblock outside St. Clair. I cannot tell you how _humiliant_ that was."

By that time, the soldiers had jumped off the trucks and were studying Beaumont like an insect under a microscope.

"I will need a small knife, _Capitaine_."

"Longman!"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Your knife."

Longman reluctantly took out his Swiss army knife and handed it to Berry. By now everyone stood around wondering what Berry was going to do next. The Frenchman yanked the chain into the bike's lowest gear.

Miller studied Berry as he busied himself with the gears. If Berry had been strip-searched at the roadblock and the Germans found nothing, here was certainly a very creative way of concealing a message which the young man could not convey by word of mouth. He grinned to himself. The resistance movements all over France had to be congratulated for designing novel ways of carrying intelligence.

"Your face seems familiar," Miller told him. "Have I seen you before?"

"If you did," Berry replied, "it would have been at the Games."

Miller slapped his helmet. "Of course! You rode France to team gold in the 100km cycling event!"

"Brigitte skinned me alive when I got home."

"Is that a fact?"

" _Oui._ What about you _, Capitaine_?" Berry asked as he got busy with his bike.

"United States coxed eights. Gold."

"Ah."

Berry fiddled with the chain and rear wheel of the bike.

"This I have got to see," muttered Linklater whose cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Like Cruikshank, Linklater chain-smoked.

"Yeah, me too," chorused Compton and Longman simultaneously.

Once Berry had the chain down to the lowest gear, he broke open the rear wheel crank all the way to release the wheel.

"What the hell is he doing, dismantling his bike like that?"

"Watch and learn," Davis answered, smiling to himself. He'd dismantled bikes, motor cycles and his father's old Pontiac as a kid, much to the old man's ire!

Once Berry braced the wheel between his legs, he opened the valve, using Longman's knife point to release all the air from the tube. Then he tightened the valve again. Once he'd completed that, it was easy to wedge the tire over the wheel rim using the knife carefully so as not to damage the tube. Berry put the wheel rim to one side while the airless tube was still wedged inside the tire.

Miller held his breath. If there was a message there, it had to be the most impressively creative way to have bypassed the search at the road block. For about half the circumference of the tire Berry prised the tube free from it.

"Holy mackerel!" exclaimed Longman.

Berry carefully pulled out three plastic sheets wrapped around white paper. Once he had the three messages in his hand, he got up.

"What do you know," exclaimed Davis. "I wouldn't have thought of that!"

Berry glared at Davis. " _Foreigners_! They cannot think of anything!"

"Enough!" barked Miller as he took the three messages from Berry, who had immediately begun to put his bike together again, much to the enjoyment of the soldiers who eagerly helped him.

"Davis!"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Over here." Davis joined him where he stood away from the others. Miller didn't look up as he spoke. "We're roughly thirty miles from St. Clair. By my calculation we should reach there around 3 pm."

"The messages, Captain?"

Miller opened the first one, the paper still warm.

"A map of St. Clair," he began as he studied the paper. "She's marked the munitions depot as well as the Headquarters of the Germans, a few buildings like the school and church. Here is a restaurant...it's called _Le Coeur de Lion_."

"The heart of the Lion," Davis remarked. "I remember it. An old man, Henri du Pléssis, owned it."

Miller glanced up sharply. "Du Plessis?"

"Yes. He was quite old. Must be gone by now. You sound surprised, Captain."

Miller clamped up, frowning as he opened the second note. "The German garrison consists of one hundred soldiers and officers. The officer in charge is Kommandant Jürgen Schult, and his second-in-command is Oberleutnant Heinz Welthagen."

"We cut off the head..." Davis murmured as Miller handed him the second message.

"Indeed," was all he answered as he opened the third note. He frowned again. It was addressed to him. He stepped away from Davis and stood on the verge of the road.

 _To the captain of the regiment_

 _If you are reading this letter, then Berry Beaumont has successfully passed through the roadblock and reached you. You are to proceed along the Vidouville-St. Clair road until you are a mile outside the town. We have managed to buy you time by disabling the Germans' communications. They have no radio contact at the moment though that could change. I would suggest your regiment enter St. Clair from the entry points I've indicated on the map. I fear by the time you arrive, battle will be imminent. We will try to hold them off as long as we can but it's getting more and more difficult to stay one step ahead of the enemy. Study the entry points. Berry Beaumont will give you able assistance. St. Clair is his home town and he knows it inside out._

 _Please, hurry._

 _Katrine du Pléssis_

Charlie stared at the name signed at the bottom of the note. _Katrine du Pléssis_. He remembered his brother's letters, urging him to find Katrine du Pléssis, to find out how she was doing. Could this be the same person? He'd always assumed she'd be based in Paris, which, according to the Harvard scientists, was her last known city of residence. Then, if she was leading the Resistance movement in St. Clair, where were her husband and daughter? Would not a child be at risk if the mother was engaged in subversive activities, however honourable they might be?

He had been primed to expect a woman leading the resistance cell. That it happened to be Katrine du Pléssis came as a surprise. He felt a little put out by the strict orders she'd given in her note, as if his regiment was only going to mop up while the resistance in St. Clair fought off one hundred Germans.

However well prepared the French locals were, they were not infantrymen combating the Germans who would be outnumbered two to one by the time his company arrived. He'd already drawn strategic plans in his head, given Katrine's information, and could practically visualise their battle situations.

But first, he needed to meet with this woman, that is, if they weren't already engaged in combat. It jumped at him suddenly, his late sister's directive to him, "You are under orders to stay alive."

 _Yes, Winonah, I promise_ was his thought as he folded the letter and inserted it inside _Caesar's Gallic Wars_ and back in his top pocket.

"Captain?"

As if waking from a dream, he realised Davis was staring at him with a quizzical look on his face.

"Here's what we do, Davis. They need backup right now. We'll break up into our platoons."

They looked at the map again as he began scribbling on the paper, marking key areas while Davis listened intently. For about twenty minutes they plotted and planned in earnest. He waved to Berry to join them. Berry proved informative and very useful in helping plot their entry into St. Clair.

Finally, he stood upright and looked into the blue sky. They would arrive in the area around St. Clair by early afternoon.

Berry joined Compton, Longman and a few infantrymen on the truck while his bike rested against the tow bar of the gun carriage.

"Ready?"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Let's go!"

 **15h00 Behind the Coeur de Lion**

In a cellar beneath the building situated behind the _Coeur de Lion,_ Katrine met with her core team. They pored over a large map on a table, illuminated only by a weak light from a bulb hanging low from the ceiling. She was worried as she hadn't heard yet from the US army regiment supposed to relieve them. Their core team was just that – a core of five members plus six others, despite the fact that they'd tried to recruit more members from among the town's men.

The Germans were becoming restless. Just walking down the Rue Evremonde from the bakery to their current position behind the restaurant earlier on had made her shiver. The soldiers were stopping everyone, interrogating townspeople before they let them go. She'd been stopped too, but they left her alone because the soldier declared bluntly, "Ah, Herr Kommandant Schult's whore. I would not dare touch anything belonging to him."

She'd given the lecherous soldier a self-satisfied smirk and ignored his blatant insult. She'd left feeling the anxiety building up in her, their presence pervasive compared to the days when they just lazed about bored, smoking French cigarettes and drinking French wine. Have they been called to arms? she wondered. Were they to do more than just break open loaves of bread, tear into Bibles and books looking for hidden messages, pour out the wine finding nothing then bemoan the fact that they should have drunk the wine anyway?

Katrine gave a subdued sigh as she looked up from the map to meet Lamine and Solange's gaze. Lamine had been explaining how he, Brigitte and Solange had managed to disconnect the main cable to the Germans' communication system. Solange had been dressed like Veronica Lake with her long blonde hair, an elegant curl over her eye; she even looked a little like the Hollywood actress to distract the foot soldiers.

"Half an hour later I managed to break into the Headquarters by the same side entrance where I put the guard out of his misery," said Lamine. "We made him look like he was sleeping, sitting upright against the wall. Then inside on the ground floor another guard was fast asleep, so I made him sleep forever without making a sound."

"You think it is a joke?" asked Solange.

"No, I am concealing my anxiety with humour," Lamine replied. Solange nodded. They were all anxious and she understood Lamine, who continued, "So I got to the first level where their radio communications system was set up. I was lucky that I could move about undetected. I uhm...destroyed the electrical current of their oscillator. It will take some time and more to look for a fault in the system. I should thank Brigitte."

"Thank me for what?"

"Gaining vital intelligence regarding their communications. They would worry first about fixing things before extending their actions to the streets, although I think there is already a restlessness there."

Katrine nodded. "Thank you, Lamine. Still, we can expect trouble from Kommandant Schult."

"We will be ready for them," said Solange. "I've recalibrated some of our weapons to be more effective. What we have may not be sufficient."'

"Hopefully our back-up should arrive before the day is out," Katrine said. "We could do with their help right now."

"I hear rumbling in the streets. We are at a disadvantage. They outnumber us." Solange offered that information matter-of-factly.

"I can help," Brigitte said.

"No, Lamine will see that you are safe with your grandparents. In your condition the risk to your safety is too great."

Katrine sounded implacable, but Brigitte stood her ground.

"We are outnumbered," she stated doggedly, her eyes blazing. "That is a fact. I can and will assist. I will glory in putting a bullet through Welthagen's head myself."

Katrine nodded, knowing she was losing against Brigitte's stubborn streak. She needed all hands. She hoped Berry had reached the US army regiment in time and that the commander of the regiment had read all the instructions. If he did... She sighed. If he did...

Right at that moment there was a tap on the trap door above them, followed by two more short taps.

Brigitte, Solange and Lamine looked up, then at her, Solange already standing with her pistol in her hand, ready to fire. Lamine's hand caressed his rifle that lay on the table.

"Who is - ?" Brigitte began, but Katrine interrupted her.

"Help has arrived," she replied, her spirits lifting. Lamine slowly lifted the trap door slowly, just enough they could see the newcomer.

"The US army," Lamine announced. He positioned the ladder for them to climb down. "Only two of you?"

Katrine studied the first officer who proceeded to remove his helmet. When the second officer stood next to him, she heard Brigitte give a cry of alarm.

"Bobby!"

Robert Davis recognised Brigitte instantly. His eyes widened when he saw her condition. Still, he smiled at her.

"You owe me a postcard," he said.

The other officer stared into a pair of blue-grey eyes. She stood hands on her hips. He sensed instantly that she was the leader. Her hair shone golden brown, falling in gentle curls about her face and on her neck. Her lips were red, her eyebrows arched. She was beautiful and looked cocky to him, like some women back home who could never keep their mouths shut. He knew her type. She breathed control. She was the one who had signed the letter.

"Katrine du Pléssis, I presume."

"How do you know my name? I could have been Brigitte over there or Solange here."

"I couldn't miss you if I were blindfolded," came his snap reply. "Captain Charles Miller, 5th Armoured Infantry. You called for help."

Katrine glared at him a second then extended a hand which he gripped tightly before releasing the handshake. She bristled at the way he barked out "called for help" as if they were all helpless in St. Clair and needed saving. Still, she had said in her note that they should come as soon as they could.

Katrine studied Charles for a few moments. Raven black hair combed sleekly with a side parting and tanned skin. A scar above his left brow looked red and in the process of healing, obviously he'd been injured recently. His eyes were as black as his hair, and he exuded such strength and confidence that she blanched at the force of it.

Charlie Miller gazed at the woman he had to contact while in France, the leader of a resistance cell. She was in St. Clair instead of Paris as he'd always presumed. He was glad she couldn't hear his inward gasp. She wore a blue dress that hugged her narrow waist and swished about her calves.

"H-how did you get here?" Katrine asked, knowing that all the information she'd given him did not include whatever way he and Davis had devised in seeing the group before any hostilities had begun.

"Your good friend Berry Beaumont gave us the necessary information to reach the town from a back road hardly ever used by the German regiment stationed here. Our driver parked the jeep behind some thick bushes just outside the perimeter of the town square."

"The rest?"

He didn't tell her that they'd taken out a few Germans, surprising them from behind and then breaking their necks. He had a few men in his regiment who would probably be boxers and wrestlers come peace time.

"They are stationed at various strategic points. From here on I'll be giving orders - "

"Captain Miller, I am the head of our unit here - " Katrine began, instantly bristling at the captain's imperious manner. "They - and you - will do as I have planned."

"You listen to me, miss smarty-pants, I risked seven of my men to take out German soldiers stationed near the back end of the square. Did you hear any gunfire? Silent killers I call them. I do not plan on losing my men, Mme du Pléssis."

"This is my town, these are my team members. They are under my command. I do not - " she began with heated indignation.

"And dare I say," he cut in, "with your handful of resistance members - oh, yes, Berry gave as much information as I needed - you want to take on one hundred Germans with insufficient weaponry. You think you're going to manage with a few rifles, grenades and pistols?"

Lamine and Solange gaped at the exchange between Katrine and Miller. He looked at Solange and indicated with his fingers splayed, he'd bet her five bottles of wine that Miller would win the exchange. Solange was gamely on Katrine's side. She was in the women's corner and had to stand up for her sex. So she and Lamine folded their arms and waited. Robert Davis and Brigitte stood to one side quietly conducting their own conversation.

Meanwhile, Katrine and Miller faced off like two growling dogs baring their teeth. Katrine realised the truth of Miller's words. She tried to focus on their dire situation and not on the dimples that formed in his cheeks or jet black hair that was brushed and looked sleek. She gave a sigh. They had only six extra members, woefully inadequate to engage in a skirmish with the superior might of the Germans. But she was not going to let the captain know that. She needed the advantage over Miller who appeared, strangely enough, so calm she felt she could kick him. She stood hands on her hips. Miller stood with his hands on his hips. Who was going to budge?

Lamine looked at Solange. He sensed he'd be winning five bottles of _Chateau Latour_ in this skirmish between two hardened fighters.

Katrine didn't want to budge. For two years she'd led the resistance in St. Clair. The town had become her home. Paris was half a dream away; a lost husband and child who crept into her nights so that she couldn't sleep. She'd fought hard to build a reliable team and had made sacrifices to keep them all concealed. Jürgen Schult's face flashed before her causing her to groan. She was not going to acquiesce to being subordinate again. To have her team submit to another's leadership galled her.

"I still say -" she began, the fight against this man beginning to leave her. She was losing the battle in those split seconds as she took in his attractive features - his rugged good looks, his implacable stance, and the fact that he was so damnably right. "I still say I know the town better than you. I should - "

"What, Mme du Pléssis? Tell us all to leave the war outside and remain closeted in the _Coeur de Lion_? Tell the Germans they can smoke your cigarettes, drink your estate wines, exhibit confiscated art work on their walls and claim them as their own?"

"How dare - "

"I am the war you called in to help you, Katrine du Pléssis," Miller bit out. "Let me and my men do what we trained for - to engage the enemy and liberate this town once and for all."

Katrine glared at him. She could kill him with that look. Damn, she was beautiful, especially when she shot daggers at him with those eyes. But he knew his work; he knew how to draw the enemy into battle. It was what he'd trained for, what he'd dreamed about for more than ten years. It was vital that he take charge of battling the Germans. Very slowly her eyes changed. They softened. He knew the moment she ceded leadership to him. Then Katrine nodded.

"Fine, Captain Miller. You have made your point. I take it you have studied the intelligence I sent you."

Lamine looked askance at Solange.

"You owe me," he said drily.

Meanwhile, Robert Davis, shocked by seeing Brigitte pregnant, could just gape at her.

"Sorry," he said. "The father?"

"A German," she answered in an unemotional tone, yet her hand stole to caress her swollen belly. "I'd like to kill him soon," she added. He rocked back at the hatred he heard in her voice.

"Why did you stop writing?"

"Why? My country needed me, Bobby. You forget that as much as you are American and would die for your country, so am I French and willing to lay down my life for the liberation of France."

"I realised that very belatedly. It was an arrogant assumption on my part and unfair of me to expect you to leave your homeland."

"Then I got busy helping in the Movement."

Brigitte looked deeply into Bobby's startling blue eyes. She remembered how Berry always told her he hated that imbecile foreigner. She could see the curiosity in his eyes, yet uncertainty whether to voice his suspicion openly.

"I...see."

"What is it that you see, Bobby?" she asked harshly. "I bedded a German. Nobody forced me into his bed. Sorry if that comes as a shock to you. But life...goes on..."

Brigitte experienced a twinge of regret. They'd fallen out of love. It was bound to happen. Handsome Robert Davis with whom she spent a memorable summer in 1936. She shook herself mentally. Some might have asked her why she would give up one of the most attractive men around, and one who was a good person too. Yet, time and distance could inflict great damage on a relationship that depended on sporadic letters across two continents.

"Yes, life goes on," he agreed.

"You?" she asked. "What about you? I notice you are wearing a wedding band."

"After I left France, I entered West Point Academy. Then I met Lynne."

"Your wife?"

"Well, she wasn't my wife then. I was hoping to marry you, Brigitte. But the letters dried up. The miles between us... It was hard keeping the flames burning, you know. Then when I met Lynne, I - "

"Realised you didn't really love me."

 _"_ _Je suis tellement désolée..._ _"_ he said in the best French he could muster.

"Don't ever be sorry, Bobby. What we had, our own little St. Clair, was good. But it wasn't strong enough. I realise that now."

"Your baby?" he asked.

"I - " she started. In that moment Brigitte looked up, straight at Katrine and Captain Miller, hearing their conversation. She heard Katrine - hard as nails, tough negotiator Katrine caving in to Miller. Brigitte became instantly angry. " _Excusez-moi_ __\- " she started, pushing Davis out of the way, her eyes flashing daggers.

She pressed herself between Katrine and Captain Miller.

"What the hell are you doing, Katrine? Who is he to be making these decisions for all of us?"

Katrine gave Brigitte a quelling look.

" _C'est le capitaine_."

She expressed her response so decisively that Brigitte shut up immediately. There were times no one dared challenge Katrine's decisions. This was one of them. When she turned to face Captain Miller to challenge him, she was met with the same determined gaze. She sighed.

"Oh, good. Now we have two of them."

"Okay," Charlie began, "right now your townspeople are entering the cathedral, the school and another public building structurally sound enough to keep those inside at least protected. The stained glass windows of the church are high. It makes targeting those inside a little more difficult."

Katrine could only gape. This was indeed no longer war games. It was war. They simply didn't have the manpower to round up everyone in town and organise their safety. With blinding clarity, she realised that Miller's platoons were already busy in St. Clair with covert operations. He was right. She should remember to ask him how big his company was.

"Others have been told by word of mouth to remain in their homes in their basements," Davis added.

Before Davis and Miller climbed up the ladder again, he turned to stare speculatively at Katrine.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Just this - I need to speak with you privately on another, unrelated matter."

"You can tell me now - "

"Sorry. No time. You have your orders. Better get moving."

Outside, some German soldiers were congregating near the fountain. They didn't know that a few of their comrades who guarded the south end of the town were already dead.

People were walking towards St. Agnes Cathedral, down Rue St. Agnes, Rue La Rochelle and Rue Evremonde. Others came up from the northern end of the town and joined those who walked towards the main road..

"Why are they going to church on a Thursday?" asked one soldier. He stood smoking a cigarette, lazily blowing little puffs in the air.

" _Ich weiß es nicht,_ " replied another. "Perhaps to confess their sins before they die."

"Should we shoot them now?"

" _Sei kein Trottel_ , Heinrich. I said _before_ they die, idiot! Let them pray first."

"Then, Matthias, they will all gather _im Himmel_ and curse us all from up there."

"Even so, what then if an entire army of enemy forces come plonking down St. Agnes Strasse? Hmmm? What then?"

"We give them all a _Heil Hitler_ salute before we kill them too."

The first soldier - Heinrich - shook his head, drew another puff from his cigarette and blew the smoke through his nostrils. He was bored. He wanted to go home and sleep with his girlfriend. He was tired of being given the skunk-eye every time he passed the townspeople.

Matthias shifted his helmet, relaxed against the wall of the fountain and appeared oblivious of the spray of water on them. It was a hot afternoon. Perhaps if they had been more observant, they might have seen the soldiers of the United States Army moving stealthily along the back roads, darting from building to building. They might have seen them giving signals to townsfolk who just as silently went into their homes and into their basements. Men, women and children were taken care of by the enemy who had entered St. Clair with surprising ease.

Perhaps it was the apathy that had begun to set in in the hearts and minds of the young Germans who had been stationed in St. Clair for four years. They had become less focused. Only sporadically did they have occasion to search some of the townspeople, especially those who came riding through the town on their bicycles. They were tired, these young soldiers, listless, disinterested, for their only duty in the town as in other towns along the northern and central bands of France, was to rule with their presence. They walked the streets, met young French women, fell in love with some of them and proceeded to keep a watch over the town.

That was all.

Perhaps, if they engaged against anyone who sought to fight them, their spirits, their honour, their celebrated discipline as Prussians and Aryans and former Hitler Jugend might kick in. Then they could show the enemy what they were made of. They had the firepower and who could _in der ganzen weiten Schöpfung_ withstand the might of the German Army?

Who, indeed?

 **16h30 German Headquarters**

" _Verdammt noch mal! Verdammt_!" Schult banged the desk hard with both fists.

Welthagen rocked back on his heels at the ferocity in Kommandant Schult's voice.

"I do not need to think who killed two of our guards or who disabled our communications," he blustered. "Townspeople of St. Clair!"

"Do you think your lovely Katrine is behind this?" Welthagen asked. He wanted to guide the Kommandant's attention to the restaurant owner whom he never really trusted and whom he thought turned the Kommandant's head to mush.

"I would put nothing past Katrine du Pléssis," Schult replied stiffly. "She hates me enough."

He stood hands behind his back, imperiously gazing at the painting above the mantelpiece. The painting was flanked by two huge German flags. He stared at it quite long before he turned to face Oberleutnant Welthagen again.

"Then I declare she is a conniving little bitch, more devious than anyone I know," said Welthagen. "We should execute her." Welthagen paused. "Right now."

"Perhaps not. Perhaps we are looking under the wrong rocks. Korporal Lindt and Korporal Kreisler were murdered, but I do not think Katrine would murder. I know her," Schult said, challenging Welthagen.

"Forgive me, Kommandant Schult, but you are getting soft in the head. Do you not think a woman could lead subversive activities here in St. Clair?"

"Frenchwomen are good for one thing only, Welthagen, and you should know that!"

Welthagen shook his head. Trust the Kommandant to home in on their sexual lusts, as if that was the only reason they had been sent to St. Clair. The danger was clear, as clear as he could ever see it. Not for nothing did he sleep with Brigitte who seemed in love with him at the time. What little secrets could be revealed when talking in one's sleep? He sensed Katrine and her cohorts were up to something. They were always up to something! Yet Kommandant Schult appeared either oblivious of the danger or he dismissed them as unimportant.

They had just lost two of their best guards and vital communication with German High Command. It had taken them the better part of the day to do repairs, for the damage had been far more serious than they realised. Now Schult was telling him to back down on Katrine du Pléssis. Welthagen had suspected the owner of the _Coeur de Lion_ since he and Schult had arrived in St. Clair. They had been sent from Berlin with a strict mandate to keep a watch on any suspected subversive activities. Schult had been unhappy being sent away from life in the German capital, from his wife Helga whom he'd poached from that _freiherr_ Baron Konrad von Wangenheim, the hero of Deutschland at the Berlin Olympics. Von Wangenheim was going up while Schult made no progress in the Nazi hierarchy. He, Heinz, was himself of Prussian stock, but Schult was near aristocracy who failed to impress _der Führer_. Perhaps bedding Katrine du Pléssis was more out of anger or, holy horror of horrors, he had fallen in love with the feisty owner of the restaurant. Schult had no qualms about bedding a Frenchwoman while Helga was languishing in the capital.

Schult looked commanding against the backdrop of a Matisse hanging above the mantelpiece. He had called it post-impressionist, a still life with oranges, one of the artist's earlier works. What did he, Welthagen, know of art? Schult had arrived via Paris where the painting had been sold to him.

"Do not ask where the seller obtained the still life, Welthagen," Schult had said at the time.

Now it didn't matter much whatever the worth was or where he got it. What he knew was that they were in trouble and that Katrine du Pléssis lay behind it all.

"It will take another hour before the lines are repaired," Schult continued. "Meanwhile I will see Katrine. I am tired of this business. I do not mind telling you that. _Wir sollten verhandeln_ \- "

Welthagen gaped in his outrage.

"Negotiate? I do not believe what I am hearing now, Herr Kommandant Schult! We cannot renege on our honour, on our task here. We know who the perpetrators are! All we need to do is kill them all. Kill everyone in this town! Remember what happened in Oradour-sur-Glane? Every man, woman and child was killed! They were hiding Resistance members after killing one of our senior officers!"

"Do not tell me what I know, Welthagen! Once we have established communication we can call for extra regiments to be sent to St. Clair . Only, I must speak with Katrine first - "

"Do you not realise, Herr Kommandant, that the honour of the Reich is at stake here? Katrine du Pléssis should be shot dead, a bullet put through her head! That whole bunch who congregate night after night in the _Coeur de Lion_... that was always an ill omen. There have been acts of sabotage which we never really condemned as such nor have we openly accused a sleazy bunch of worthless Frenchmen and -women. We should have blown up the town, Herr Kommandant. This latest problem is another act of sabotage! Why do we tolerate this?

"We are a chosen people, Kommandant. Our race is pure and it can never, ever be tainted by those not of Aryan stock. That is what is bred into every young German! That we are set apart - no, not apart, but above every other impurity! We honour our enlightened Führer who has claimed a Reich that should last a thousand years. A thousand years! We cannot relent or accept anything less, or beneath us, for then we are equal to the Jews and Gypsies and these worthless French who should be exterminated, wiped from the face of the earth. We extend the Reich to include only what is pure, and subjugate what is not. We have thrown off the shackles of commonness and are unique. Therefore we honour our beloved flag, we honour the cross of iron, to reach the corners of the earth and enshrine our superiority upon the common peoples. That is our purpose. I cannot understand - forgive me for saying this, Kommandant - that you could take such a tolerant view of our crucial role here."

Schult looked at Welthagen with stunned surprise, suddenly filled with renewed drive at his colleague's impassioned entreaty to remain faithful to their cause. He experienced a twinge of shame that his subordinate had to remind him of his duty to the Reich. Welthagen's eyes remained on him, waiting for a reaction, for leadership.

Jürgen began to tremble with patriotic pride, with a belated anger that Katrine was responsible in whatever creative manner she did so, for the destruction of their communications. Welthagen's words hit him hard, its arrows of truth penetrating the apathy that had settled in his heart since he arrived in St. Clair. Now the patriotic fervour made way for action.

Jürgen Schult banged both fists so hard on the desk that Welthagen jumped in surprise.

"You are right, Welthagen. Forgive me that I have forgotten for a while that this flag of ours must be our reminder for all time of our duty to the Reich. Prepare the troops. I will find Katrine and kill her myself."

Welthagen stood on attention, clicked his heels and saluted _Heil Hitler_!

" _Heil Hitler!_ "

Just as Schult saluted, they heard booming gunfire in the distance.

 **17h00 The Battle for St. Clair**

Berry Beaumont waited for the signal from Longman. They were on opposite sides of the main road into St. Clair. He grinned when he saw how little attention the Germans had given to the outer perimeter of the town. Very few checkpoints, sandbags stacked haphazardly over half a street or the entrance to the alleys. He'd reached the south end of the square, where the last of the nearby inhabitants were making their way to the cathedral and the school building. Word of mouth had worked its magic. Monseigneur Girardeau knew what he had to do once the old stone building was filled to capacity.

He rode past the first checkpoint.

" _Halt_!" screamed a German soldier.

Berry stopped. He knew Longman and Davis had him covered.

" _Bonjour_ , gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

"Your cycle. We shall take it. You are trouble! We have been warned!"

The next moment two shots rang out simultaneously. Berry watched the two soldiers sink to the ground dead.

" _Merci beaucoup, Messieurs_!"

He rode away as fast as he could to the _Coeur de Lion_. Once there he saw Katrine, Lamine, Brigitte and Solange already dressed in the black attire of the Resistance. They were also armed, Solange wielding a rifle and a waistband bag filled with grenades.

"Quickly," Katrine ordered as she threw him a rifle, "we have woken the Germans!"

"This is it!"

Then a swarm of German soldiers appeared seemingly from nowhere, starting to shoot. Berry trapped two of them in quick succession, using their own sandbags to shield himself. He saw Katrine and the others do the same. He worried about Brigitte, but she was holding her own. By that time he watched as back-up firing came from the American platoon under Davis. Some of them managed to work their way down Rue St. Agnes en route to the munitions depot.

His eyes widened when he noticed how expertly they dispatched the German soldiers. Some of the Americans were to keep guard along the cathedral, shooting any German coming within ten yards of the building. Others from the platoon made their way to the German headquarters. A loud boom! Solange took out five Germans who approached them from the unprotected left flank, Solange who loved big bang grenades. It was messy, it was necessary, it was war. His ears buzzed painfully from the noise of rapid gunfire.

"Thanks!" he shouted, falling flat behind the sandbags as German bullets rained against the bags.

Then Berry saw Katrine and Lamine move from behind their protective sandbags, running across the square. He glanced in the direction they were running and saw a child cowering at the fountain.

"Katrine! Katrine! _Mon Dieu_!"

"Ready?" Miller asked as he and Compton perched on the jeep two hundred yards from the roadblock through which Berry had come earlier that day. After Miller had been to see Katrine du Pléssis, they had driven right around the back roads of St. Clair to reach the main entry to the town again.

Only two Germans were on duty. They looked scared but ready to fire. They could all hear gunfire in St. Clair.

"Yes, sir."

"Fire!"

The two Germans at the road block fell down dead.

"Now!" Miller commanded. The rest of Platoon A followed, beginning to spread out. Some remained directly behind the jeep and artillery wagon up the Rue St. Agnes, reaching the munitions depot minutes later. The building was a facade as Katrine had warned them.

Miller indicated with a swing of his arm for the long cannon on its gun carriage.

"Fire!"

Some German soldiers who were running towards the building died instantly, their bodies thrust in the air, plunging like broken puppets to the ground. But it was the long cannon that came rolling behind the platoon that was causing the damage as a massive single boom destroyed half the building.

Like stealth objects flying in the dark, several men selected by Miller closed in and lobbed grenades in the open space and ran back as fast as they could, diving to the ground when they were safely out of the way. The building flared up like a fireworks display in a continuous blast of bombs and grenades going off.

Then they made their way up Rue St. Agnes, ducking between buildings. Miller was glad that they'd sent ahead warnings for the townspeople to evacuate their homes, especially around the munitions depot. He wanted no civilians killed in their skirmish against the Germans. Davis and his men moved through the town from the south, picking off the enemy as they advanced on the headquarters.

"Cut off the head," had been their strategy.

On the approach to the town square - they were two hundred yards away, Miller, Compton and Linklater dived into one building. They surprised three German foot soldiers firing at the cathedral windows. They were shot at point blank range before they could react. Up, up to the second floor and then to the top from where they could get a good view of the town square.

That was when Miller saw Katrine and Lamine running across the square. A child was sitting near the fountain, crying its eyes out. He saw Lamine grab the child and in one swift unbroken movement run to the end of the square. Katrine was shooting as she ran.

Then he saw Katrine go down.

"Katrine!" he cried out, cursing that he was so far away.

She'd seen the child before everyone else. He cowered close to the fountain, sobbing. Lamine followed Katrine as she dashed across the square.

"Katrine, no! You'll get shot!" she heard his voice.

"The child! I can't let him die!" she screamed as bullets flew around them. She ducked and dived until she reached the little boy.

"Let me handle the child. You cover me," yelled Lamine as he scooped the child up and ran to the statue about fifteen yards away, ducking with the child in his arms. He reached the statue, knowing that the south end was covered by the American soldiers and tucked the child behind the wall of the statue.

"Stay here. Do not worry, little one. Those soldiers there will keep you safe."

"Yes."

When Lamine turned to look for Katrine, she was on her feet. With horror he saw Jürgen Schult firing at her. She went down, clutching her leg. Another shot rang out. He must have hit her shoulder with the second shot for she was flung back.

"Katrine! _Mon Dieu!_ "

Lamine, blinded by fury, remembered the day Lucien Blériot struck her with the butt of his rifle. He wanted to rush forward, but by that time Schult had already pulled Katrine to her feet. Heinz Welthagen was dragging Brigitte by her hair across the square, priming his gun at anyone daring to shoot him.

Two human shields.

Lamine thought how typical that two German SS officers would be such cowards, right to the end.

Katrine, dazed by the wounds to her leg and shoulder, gave a plaintive cry as Schult pulled her up and held her against him like a shield.

"Drop your weapons!" he screamed, " _oder diese Hure soll verrecken_! She is a whore!"

" _Tu es un lâche, Schult!_ " __Katrine managed to cry out. "A coward to the very end."

He struck her across the face with the butt of his pistol, then pressed the barrel of the Luger P08 against her temple. She felt the cold metal pressing into her skin and closed her eyes. Katrine turned ice cold despite the stinging pain in her leg and shoulder. He was going to kill her in cold blood. She tried to move, but his grip on her tightened.

"I will kill her. Stand down or she will die!"

She could see Miller's men backing down. One was standing quite close to them. He lowered his gun, the action followed by other soldiers.

"Don't listen to him! He is a coward!" she shouted, only to feel him press the barrel harder into her. She cried out with pain.

"Lower your weapons! She will die! Die!"

She heard him cock the pistol and closed her eyes. Her heart hammered loud, loud thuds that caused her insides to ache. An image of Célestine flashed before her.

 _He is going to kill me. I am so sorry, Joseph...Célestine..._

Then a shot rang out. Another. And another. A head exploded. Blood spattered across her face. There was a gaping hole where Schult's eyes had been. His lifeless body slumped against her.

Katrine sank wordlessly to the ground.

Miller, Compton and Linklater were inside the building on the top floor opposite the cathedral. On their way up, they'd killed three German soldiers who were aiming for the stained glass windows of St. Agnes Cathedral.

They smashed the windows overlooking the south, bracing their rifles on the ledges, a clear view of the fountain in the square through their scopes. Katrine had gone down, clutching her thigh as she fell. Then her body rocked as another bullet hit her shoulder. He could see her moving, evidence that she was conscious despite her wounds.

"Someone doesn't want to kill Katrine right away," he mused as he took aim. "Ah, looks like an SS officer." Then Miller saw another officer dragging Brigitte to where Katrine was roughly jerked to her feet by the Nazi who'd shot her.

He heard the Kommandant yell, "Drop your weapons. I shall kill this whore!"

He had them in his scope. They were two hundred yards away. They had a ridiculously clear view.

"Compton, take out the one holding the pregnant woman. That first guy is mine. Linklater, fix on the soldier five paces right of Brigitte. He seems ready to fire at the women."

"Aye, Captain!"

"Fire on my mark..."

He saw Katrine's face and the Kommandant's clear in his scope. Why, oh, why, Miller wondered, do the German officers not wear their protective helmets? One moment the officer leaned into the dazed Katrine pressing his pistol barrel against her. When he presented a clear view again, Miller was ready for him.

"Ready, Captain..."

Bye-bye.

"Fire!"

The three fired simultaneously. Miller saw the Kommandant's head practically explode. Brigitte's assailant met the same fate. Then they fired on other German soldiers who knew not where the bullets were coming from. By that time, his men and Davis's platoon were swarming the area.

"Let's go! Those women need medical assistance!"

They were running down three flights of steps, out into the road towards the square. When they reached the fountain, Katrine was lying semiconscious. Berry was holding Brigitte whose face was spattered with blood. He was crying and berating her at the same time.

" _Mon Dieu ! Ma pauvre chérie_!" Why, oh why could you not take care, Brigitte? You just gave me ten heart attacks! Look at your face! I already suffered a thousand attacks! I shall never breathe properly as long as you are in dan -"

Brigitte grabbed Berry's shirt front and looked him straight in the eyes. He really looked like he wanted to cry.

"Shut up, Berry and kiss me!"

"Brigitte?"

Miller looked at the mayhem around him. His men would take care of getting everything settled again. The town at least looked better in the aftermath of battle than had Vidouville.

He knelt beside the semiconscious Katrine. A quick glance told him her wounds were fortunately superficial.

"Katrine..."

Katrine opened her eyes and saw Captain Miller bending over her. Even in her dazed state she heard the concern in his voice, saw the worry in his eyes. She felt herself lifted in his arms and imagined herself floating on a soft cloud.

" _Charles_..."

END CHAPTER EIGHT


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER NINE

 **St. Clair : Aftermath - July 1944**

Captain Charles Miller stood, hands on his hips, in the main office of what had been the German Headquarters, now the temporary command centre of the American contingent. They'd be here at least another week, tying up loose ends, compiling reports of events, handing out commendations, mopping up operations and taking some much needed rest and relaxation.

Two privates were taking down the German flags that hung from the walls. When Miller had entered the building for the first time late last night, he'd been appalled at the proliferation of flags and swastika symbols everywhere.

Just above the fireplace was an oil painting, a still life depicting oranges. It stirred something in him, deep and mysterious. He did not know much about art, but he felt somehow connected in a way he found unable to explain. It drew him inexorably to it, causing him to wonder about the association.

It probably belonged to Jürgen Schult, the Kommandant he'd shot dead yesterday. But then, how did Schult acquire this painting? It was common knowledge among the American and British military that the Germans confiscated art works from their Jewish owners who'd been displaced and sent to concentration camps. He would have to ask Katrine about it sometime. Surely this painting had an original owner other than the artist himself.

"All done, sir," said Private Gordon, bunching the flags in his arms. "What shall we do with them?"

The soldier looked expectantly at him.

The red flags bore the swastika which flowered like red poppies all over Germany and its occupied territories. What madman, Captain Miller decided, could hold the world ransom like that? What dictator could claim a Reich that had to last a thousand years but left death and destruction in its wake?

Charles had seen a hundred thousand spectators that day in the Olympic Stadium in Berlin, paying homage to _der Führer_ as if he, like a modern messiah, had come to deliver Germany from all it deemed imperfect, undesirable, unworthy and unacceptable. Empires rose and fell and Charles had no doubt that the Third Reich would, like its predecessors in history, also fall. In the modern day, claiming to extend the Reich by sheer force of will and rule it for a thousand years could no longer be viewed as defensible. Europe and Southeast Asia were plunged in darkness. War was ugly; war was dirty. While a Geneva Convention existed that determined the fate of prisoners, the rules of engagement were ignored by the Axis Powers.

Men and women such as he had encountered since arriving in France, fought for freedom and refused to accept that the atrocities committed by the enemy in the name of the Reich, in the name of a herrenvolk, could ever continue. Hitler's supposed Reich was not an empire of enlightenment, but truly, Miller thought, a thousand years of darkness.

How could one man who ordered the wilful destruction of lands and the shameful subjugation of its peoples with extreme atrocity not be called to justice? A flag that carried a symbol of the swastika was an evil embodiment of that man.

"Captain?"

As if Captain Miller awoke from a dark dream, the face of Private Gordon came into focus, the red flags dripping like blood over his arms.

"Burn them all."

Once he sat down behind the desk, he leaned back, allowing his thoughts to stray to the events of the previous day. He thought of Katrine. He'd shot Jürgen Schult from two hundred paces clean through the head. It had looked like the Kommandant's head exploded before both of them went down.

He'd been confident that Katrine's injuries were only superficial. It said a lot for Schult that he didn't want to kill Katrine, trying to gain a truce most likely by threatening to kill her. By the time they reached the square, Katrine was slowly regaining consciousness. He realised that the shock of an exploding head next to her was too much.

He'd ignored the litter bearers as he'd lifted her in his arms and carried her to the medical tents set up on the perimeter of the town south of the square. She'd looked at him when she came to and called his name.

" _Charles_..."

The French inflection, the -s- silent. It sounded beautiful as his name fell from her lips. A warmth had spread through him. Then she closed her eyes again and buried her head against his chest.

He felt something breaking in him, something he didn't want to feel.

"Treat this woman," he told the field medics when he reached the hospital tent.

"Yes, Captain!"

Katrine had stirred awake, her hand releasing his reluctantly when he laid her down on the cot. She was covered with blood that had spattered from the dead Schult. Her blue-grey eyes were curious despite the pain that flashed in them.

" _Capitaine_..."

He stiffened.

"Yes?"

"You said you wanted to talk to me on another matter," she'd said, already drowsy as the injection the field nurse administered began taking effect.

"I'll be around, Katrine. It can wait. Just get better, okay?"

"Tomorrow, then," she said, and Charles thought he heard a hint of command in her voice.

He'd held her hand until she drifted into slumber. She was in good hands. His field medics knew their work. He'd noticed a few German soldiers being treated by his men. Later they'd be transported to another town as prisoners of war.

He'd reminded himself that he would ask Katrine whether Frenchwomen were always as gung-ho as some of the American women he'd encountered. They, he decided, were pro-active women who would stand equal to any man. He didn't mind that. Not if that woman happened to be Katrine du Pléssis.

She did something to him, something that excited him but also filled him with anxiety. He'd lost Lucy to his brother. He was not going to get burned a second time; he would not give his heart again only to have it ripped from his chest and trampled on. Lucy fell out of love with him when he still believed in love. He'd been popular in high school, never short of the attention of girls, until Lucy came along. She had given him purpose, stability, even calmness. He had gone a little mad when he discovered she married his brother.

Since then he had turned cold inside.

Now Katrine. For the first time something stirred deep within him from the first moment he laid eyes on her. But he could not go through a desertion again. Katrine was beautiful, exquisite and dangerous to his equilibrium. He'd apprise her of his personal mission regarding the Harvard scientists, ask where her child and husband were, write home to his brother and that was that, as his father used to say.

"And that's that!"

Berry Beaumont woke up the morning after the big fight, memories of flying bullets, snipers, Germans dying and Brigitte ordering him to kiss her flooding him.

Sighing, he lay back against the pillows, hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He felt on top of the world today. Brigitte told him to kiss her! No, she _ordered_ him to kiss her! Ever since he was a boy barely out of his teens he had dreamed of just such a day. They had kissed before, but those were _cousinly_ kisses. They could never be counted. Why, there was never any indication that it could be more than cousinly. Brigitte had been so _inflexible_ all those years, telling him she was not interested in a cousin who had shared a bath tub with her.

"We are family, and we know each other too well," she'd always stated, lifting that cheeky chin of hers in an act of snootiness.

"But, Brigitte, where is it said that cousins cannot - "

"Stop right there, Bertrand Beaumont. I am _not_ interested! When are you _ever_ going to understand?"

But he had never given up on Brigitte. Never. His love for her was like a river that flowed strongly since the beginning of time, like the river Seine. He could not think of a single moment in his entire life that he had not loved Brigitte. When he was six years old and Brigitte was four, he told her he was going to marry her one day. She had lifted that same chin so tartly and replied, "You do not have a _pénis_!" He had looked down, for they were standing in a large bath tub while _Grand-mère_ scrubbed their ears.

" _Grand-mère_!" he'd cried that day because even at four years old, Brigitte was a little sassy. When he thought about it, Brigitte was never an ingénue.

 _Grand-mère_ had slapped Brigitte's bottom for being so forward to talk about her cousin's _pénis_ after which she started wailing and told _Grand-mère_ while pointing a soapy finger in his face, "He told me about his little _pénis_!" Then _Grand-mère_ walloped his bottom. He and Brigitte bawled all the time _Grand-mère_ scrubbed their ears.

Yes, he had wanted to marry Brigitte ever since that day, and ever since that day he never let her forget, always telling her about how he loved her. She had had her share of boyfriends and he had especially hated that _foreigner_ Robert Davis, afraid that Davis with his blonde hair and blue eyes that stood out like a beacon in St. Clair, would take his girl and fly with her to America. He had been even more afraid because he was in Berlin at the time riding France to gold in the team event.

When he'd returned home to St. Clair on crutches, Davis was gone and Brigitte looked sad for a very long time. His own heart wanted to break because she was so heartbroken. But Brigitte rallied. And he rallied. Then that German Welthagen caught Brigitte's eye and made her pregnant.

Berry gave another long drawn out sigh. He had been shocked when Welthagen had dragged her by her hair to the middle of the square and threatened to shoot her. Today he was going to ask his new friend Rheddam Compton just how they could shoot Welthagen dead at such a great distance. That German's head seemed to fly away from his neck. He had rushed to Brigitte who was lying on the ground, her face and clothes spattered with _sang Allemand_.

How could he not help berating her for being so careless? Katrine didn't want her to join in the big fight, but in typical Brigitte stubbornness she had insisted. Now she had the blood of Welthagen all over her face and clothes.

"Shut up, Berry and kiss me!"

He had been too stunned to react immediately, thinking of all the times she had brushed him off.

"Brigitte?"

Then she'd pulled his head closer and pressed her lips against his. He felt like drowning and he liked that sensation! He never wanted to come up for air again. He hardly noticed that the firing had stopped or that Welthagen and Schult lay on the ground with their heads split open.

"Ah, Brigitte! Ah, Brigitte!" he cried when he'd managed to come up for air.

He noticed only then that Captain Miller had lifted Katrine in his arms. He copied the good captain by lifting Brigitte in his arms too and carried her all the way to their apartment building. They had no mothers and their fathers who were brothers worked in labour camps in Germany.

He wanted to put Brigitte down gently in her lounge, but Brigitte, who had buried her face against his shoulder, was reluctant to let him go.

" _Ah, mon tendre amour, je dois te laisser partir_ , but I will not relinquish my touch!" he promised.

So, while he still kept contact with her, he laid her down, and then sat down beside her and kept holding her hand. She had looked deeply into his eyes.

Berry thought how that look was so different from all the other times Brigitte had looked at him. She could shoot angry sparks at him, she could look agitated, even flinty. Now her eyes were soft, but also he had sensed she was a little ashamed. She was courageous, though, and was waiting to hear all his ranting against foreigners and the man who had made her pregnant. Brigitte had made a lot of sacrifices and for a while at least, she was attracted to Heinz Welthagen.

"You want me to say I hate what happened to you, but I cannot. You want me to say I hate Robert Davis and I hate Heinz Welthagen. You want me to rub your nose in it, but I cannot. I can never do that! My love is greater than my hatred and has consumed all of it!"

"You mean that, Berry?"

"With all my heart!" he'd cried out passionately.

"And - and the child?" Her hand had caressed her swollen belly. She was carrying a German's child, a German Brigitte had come to hate and who was dead.

"What is yours is also mine. I have always thought of our unborn child to be of us. How can I not love your child if I love its mother beyond my own life, Brigitte? Tell me how!"

He had pleaded and Brigitte had burst into tears. He could swear by all the heavens that he had never seen Brigitte cry like she had last night. She had clung to him and all the while he allowed his love to sob her heart out against him, he wept with her.

When the weeping stopped eventually, Brigitte sat back, but she still held his hand. She smiled through the tears.

"Why have you been so patient with me, Berry?"

"Do you remember when I was riding for France in Berlin and I had injured my leg? I worried every day I was away that you would go to America and I would never see you again."

"When Bobby left, I knew that it was over, the beginning of the end. Then, Welthagen... forgive me, Berry."

Brigitte's eyes had filled with tears again. He had waited patiently while she dried her tears.

"When you love a cousin like Brigitte Beaumont," he said at last, "you learn to be patient."

And for that, Brigitte thumped his arm, making him cry out out in surprise. Then they'd both been so shocked that they burst out laughing so hard that they cried again.

Now Berry lay thinking about last night, and thinking that today would beckon a bright new future. Him, Brigitte and a baby.

Today he was going to ask her to marry him.

"But _Madame_ , you are not well," the army medic told Katrine the following morning.

She gave him a glare and bit out, "If I can hobble on this leg and I have my faculties about me, then I am mobile."

"I have met someone just like you," he said as he allowed her up and gave her another painkiller.

"Yes? Do I know such a person?"

"Indeed you do, Mme Du Pléssis. His name is Captain Charles Anson Miller."

 _So he has a middle name...Anson._

Katrine smiled, then softened. "Please, I have so many things to tie up. I intended opening _Le Coeur de_ _Lion_ tonight for business again. I will heal meanwhile. _Ne vous inquiétez pas autant_!"

"Fine, I shall not worry. You are discharged then," he said, smiling.

"Thank you," she said, touching his arm.

Katrine left the tent and began walking towards her home. On the way she saw American soldiers still in the process of mopping up. Some German soldiers who had been injured were treated by the Americans. They probably had structures in place as to what would happen to the prisoners of war.

The dead?

When she'd feared for her life, Schult had held tightly on to her. Next moment he was dead, killed by a sniper. After that it became quiet around her. She must have fainted, for the next thing she knew was being lifted by Captain Miller and carried to the medical tents.

The feeling of floating was not brought on by the fainting spell or the excruciating pain in her leg and shoulder. She was in the arms of a man and it was not Schult, the last man who had held her during their nights of passion. She had not loved Schult, never loved anyone since Joseph died. Schult held her hostage and she had to comply, had no way of fighting him those nights he slept in her bed. Whatever his feelings were concerned her no more. She was glad, very glad the German Kommandant was out of her life forever.

But being held so closely by Charles Anson Miller...

When last had she felt like her world was turning upside down again? When last did she feel she wanted to remain in someone's close embrace and not have to think of all her tribulations? Not have to think of her pain, her loss, even her anger? She had closed her eyes and it seemed to her that her pain was forgotten. She was so aware of Miller, his chest rock hard. "Lean on me," were words she had last heard when Joseph spoke them. Miller said not a single word but his very bearing, the way he carried her told her that she could lean on him.

Last night in the tent he had placed her on a cot and stayed with her until she had been cleaned up and treated. He held her hand and she had not minded it one single bit. Once when she opened her eyes it was to see him looking worried.

"These are only flesh wounds, Captain Miller," the medic said.

"Take good care of her," Miller had answered. Katrine thought his voice sounded menacing.

"Do not worry, Captain. Mme du Pléssis is in good hands."

Charles Miller had given a tight smile, still not letting go of her hand. Later she had fallen asleep, unable to keep awake.

Now as she walked home, she wondered how long Captain Miller had stayed with her. He probably waited until she had fallen asleep, she thought wryly. And why not? He was in charge of the American units here with a lot of paperwork to be done. Where had he gone? Where did the soldiers sleep? There were no signs around her that they slept in the vacant buildings. Probably in tents. They certainly knew what they were doing!

Sighing, she opened her front door and headed straight for the bathroom to freshen up. She wanted to meet with Captain Miller again about how long they'd be staying in St. Clair. She hoped long enough that she could entertain the troops in the _Coeur de Lion._

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She saw the scene of yesterday so clearly.

Schult's gun pressed painfully against her temple. In a second or two she would be dead. Schult screamed that the soldiers should drop their weapons. Next moment his head burst open, the body sinking to the ground, pulling her down with him. Blood everywhere. Schult was dead.

 _Schult is gone. Schult is dead. No more need I submit my body to him. I am free, free, free!_

And so, above the feeling of complete wonderment that Charles Anson Miller could have such a devastating effect on her came the feeling of being free from Jürgen Schult. She trembled with the aftershock of her realisation that Schult was no more.

Her heart sang a new song, the lyrics of which were still unknown to her, a melody that would one day become her song.

Katrine put on a new dress, a blue one that flared about her calves, that hugged her bosom and one that made her feel _woman_. Then she sat down at her table in the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Chateau Languedoc, the only bottle she had kept on the day Joseph and Célestine had been taken from her.

Raising her glass, she toasted to all who had sacrificed in the name of the freedom of France.

 _"To France. To you, Captain Miller..."_

She was still tired from her ordeal and decided afterwards to lie down and take a nap. Her leg and shoulder felt better already. She'd limp for a few days and that would be all. Tonight her team would be with her in the _Coeur de Lion_ when she'd be completely refreshed.

At around midday there was a knock on her door. She blinked several times when she realised she'd slept longer than she had intended. Smoothing down her dress and slipping on her pumps in one movement, she made her way to the front door. She smoothed back her hair, smiling when she opened the door.

" _Capitaine_ \- "

Her smile died when she saw three men standing there. She'd seen them in the _Coeur de Lion_ a few times. At other times lazing and lurking around the town. She remembered trying to recruit them into the resistance. They were not smiling. Katrine frowned.

"No, it is not _Capitaine_ Miller, Katrine."

"Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked, becoming increasingly anxious.

Then the tallest of them - she recognised him as Gilles Rimbaud - spoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm and anger.

"You are a _putain_ who slept with the enemy, Katrine. You are nothing but a whore! Come with us!"

Before she could respond, two of them grabbed her arms and marched her to the town square. Too surprised to offer any resistance, she walked with them. She saw a number of women there, Brigitte and Solange among them.

" _Putes_!" the men shouted.

Then Gilles Rimbaud stepped forward, holding a barber's clippers in his hand. There was a rumbling in the crowd, and the rumbling whipped the men into action.

"There is only one thing we do with women who slept with Germans!"

At his desk Charles Miller was busy with reports of the past day's events. He was in a hurry to finish up, planning to meet with Katrine later and talk about his personal mission. She spoke very fluent English so it was easy to converse with her in his language. She'd given him as good as any other person during their first meeting.

He noticed that she mentioned nothing about a husband and daughter. Where were they, he wondered? Were they in a safe place after all? Perhaps Switzerland? He was very curious about their whereabouts. He could, when reading about them in his brother's letter, only assume that her husband and daughter were Jewish.

Katrine was the only one who knew. He hoped she would be amenable and tell him about them. The Harvard scientists were extremely concerned ever since she had written them about finding a temporary home for her daughter. How old was the child then? he wondered. And why did she change her mind?

He knew very little about Katrine except that she was one mighty strong leader, one with strength of will. Yet he was drawn to her, an attraction he didn't want to acknowledge. He feared losing his heart again and that wouldn't do. At all!

His company had had a successful campaign in St. Clair. They suffered no casualties, and only a few of the locals had minor injuries. They had all been treated by his own men. No doubt the hospital in St. Clair would continue treatment once their forces left the town. He had instructed his men, though, to be on constant alert as they prepared for surprise attacks. They knew their job and they'd be out walking the streets monitoring the safety and security of the townsfolk. Not many buildings were destroyed and he was glad the Saint Agnes Cathedral had not beenshelled.

His aide was sitting rifling through papers the Germans left in the offices. However, he had no one in his company who knew enough German to read them. They did get a list of names of the German soldiers who served in St. Clair because Jürgen Schult's name was at the top followed by that of Oberleutnant Heinz Welthagen.

"Keep that," he told Private Porterfield.

"Why, Captain? Couldn't we just burn all the documents?"

"Do you have a mother, Porterfield?"

"Yes, sir. And a sister and brother still in junior high."

"You know we keep the dog tags of all our soldiers who died. I've instructed some soldiers to remove the identification tags of the German soldiers."

"I...see," said Porterfield.

"What do you see? If you died on the battlefield so far from home, Headquarters would need to inform your next of kin. We accord the same to these poor German foot soldiers who died."

"Thank you, Captain. I learn more and more each day."

"Good. Now - "

They heard two shots ring out outside. Miller glanced up sharply then frowned. His men were in control, but those were not rifle shots. Pistols more likely.

Right at that instant there was a loud knock on the door. Next moment Rheddam Compton burst through. His face looked flushed, his hair even spikier than usual.

"Compton! What the hell - ?"

"You have to come quickly, Captain! Frenchmen in the square. They just shot dead two of their own. There are women too. I think - I think - "

"Quick," he ordered Porterfield, "grab your rifle. Alert the rest to move to the square, Compton. I think I know what's happening."

They rushed downstairs and were out in record time. Miller, Compton and Porterfield ran all the way to the square already filled with an angry mob. Charlie noticed two men lying on the ground near the fountain. They were shot in the head. A woman wailed loudly.

Charlie's mind was in a whirl as he turned his gaze from the two dead men to the women who were brought to the square, too scared to move after the two men had been shot. Several men stood in front of them, at least three of them with barber's clippers in their hands.

"Let them go, Gilles Rimbaud!" one of the bystanders shouted.

"These women," the man called Gilles, cried out, "were collaborators. They slept with Germans! We shake off these shackles of shame they brought upon us!" Then he pointed to Brigitte. "Look at her! She is carrying a child fathered by a German. They must all pay for their deeds!"

By the time Gilles had spoken, Captain Charles Miller was already enraged. It was an anger that blinded him, and for a moment when he closed his eyes, he experienced darks spots and white flashes. His fists trembled; he wanted to kill Rimbaud with his bare hands, but Miller remained acutely aware that his men were already primed to shoot if necessary. Some of the women's eyes were downcast, others like Brigitte and Katrine were bold, yet tinged with fear.

One man grabbed a woman by her hair and pushed her forcibly down on a stool. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Someone shouted "She must be punished! Whore!"

Charlie rushed forward, using his rifle like a baseball bat and swung at the Frenchman's legs, literally knocking him off his feet. Next moment Longman - or was it Linklater? - pressed a heavy boot down on the man's chest. "Stay!" he ordered, at the same time confiscating the offending clippers.

Meanwhile the soldiers screamed at the crowd to retreat. They beat back the men carrying clippers, using the butts of their rifles to keep them at bay. He heard Longman say, "Just try, I'll beat the snot out of you!"

Then Miller, the blinding rage lifting a little, yelled, "What the hell do you think you are doing to these poor women?"

"These women slept with Germans," one man shouted. "Shaving off their hair is their punishment!"

For which Charlie hit him with the butt of his rifle so hard he flew back several yards and landed in the fountain. Charlie heard a snicker from the crowd. He turned to look at the women. They looked afraid. Brigitte had tears in her eyes. What did it matter to these people that Brigitte, Solange and Katrine fought for the liberation of the town? All they saw were women who betrayed them. Katrine looked beautiful and resolute. He noticed that she stood at an awkward angle. She was in pain, he knew. He felt like gagging just at the thought of rough, uncouth hands shaving off their beautiful hair as an act of retribution.

Fury and a sudden churning in his stomach made him turn to Gilles Rimbaud who seemed to stand his ground against Miller. He pointed his rifle at the Frenchman, dark eyes flashing dangerously.

"I will shoot you first before I see you take one single hair off these women's heads!"

"This is not your business, _Capitaine_!" Rimbaud shouted.

That angered Charlie even more as he pressed the muzzle into Rimbaud's neck.

"Stand back, or I will shoot you!"

By that time, Miller noticed that Lamine, Linklater, Davis and Berry Beaumont and a few of his men formed a human barrier around the women. Others pushed the crowds back, telling them to go home.

Rimbaud reluctantly moved back but only about a yard or two. It was not enough for Charles and he pressed him back further so that his retreat was stopped by the support wall of the fountain.

"Longman!"

"Yes, Captain?"

"You can let go that slimy piece of horse mature!"

Longman reluctantly lifted his boot off the Frenchman's chest. He could have resisted the weight of Longman's boot had it not been for the muzzle of his rifle being practically stuck into his mouth.

"They are cowards, Captain!" Longman shouted, his voice fired with outrage. Then, as the Frenchman got to his feet, he shrunk back as Longman lunged for him. The other men also jumped back.

"You think," Longman began, "this is the middle ages! You think you can take the law into your own hands? By what law do you take it upon yourself to shave these women's heads and to execute those poor men? What law? Tell me!" he shouted. "These women do not deserve this inhumane, humiliating treatment! They are your daughters, your mothers, your wives, for the love of God, and you can stand by and watch these butchers treat them like sheep!"

Longman's eyes were red with the burn of tears. He didn't care that many of them didn't understand English, because the tone of his impassioned tirade was enough to make them understand his intent and his outrage. They were left in no doubt as to what he meant.

When one of them had the temerity to point to Brigitte, Berry Beaumont let fly with a hard punch to his jaw.

"You will not touch Brigitte, you miserable specimen of a rat! You will not touch a hair on her head! She is to be my wife and this baby is ours! You hear me, you creepy rat! She has fought fearlessly for the Resistance and placed herself in danger, right here in the square! She would give her life for a free France just as many of you dreamed but were afraid to embrace! And you dare stand there and tell me she is a collaborator! Go home, all of you! St. Clair will not do what others have done in other towns! It is shameful! You ought to feel the shame in your hearts!"

Berry was out of breath when he finished. The crowd began moving very slowly, but those men with the clippers still looked confrontational. Miller released Rimbaud, then stepped back to the women, keeping his rifle pointed at the men, especially Rimbaud. It was an interesting conversation he'd had early this morning with Lamine Bhoutayeb...

Miller turned to look briefly at Katrine. She was still nursing her left thigh, but looked stronger. The fear had left her. He knew that she must have slept with Schult. What choice would she have had? Schult could have had her executed for subversion at any time according to his own whim. Like many of the Germans in high positions, Schult exercised his authority to coerce her to become his lover. He'd heard stories of how Germans had engaged in prostitution rings in some of the big towns already liberated by the Allied Forces.

When Rimbaud lunged forward again, Miller was ready for him.

"Don't you dare," Miller threatened. "Davis!"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Did you not assign some of our men to guard the perimeter of the cathedral and the school building?"

"Yes, Captain. Thirty men in all covering the church and school and some inside the buildings."

Miller took Katrine's hand and drew her towards him so that they faced those people still hanging around. He pointed to Gilles Rimbaud.

"Lieutenant Davis, did this man, Gilles Rimbaud, enter the cathedral yesterday when the residents were asked to go there for their safety?"

"I recognise that man, Captain. He was one of the first to enter the cathedral." Davis sounded disgusted when he spoke. He stepped closer to Rimbaud, threatening to punch him, then drew back reluctantly.

"Listen, all of you!" Miller shouted, pulling Gilles by his shirt collar so that the Frenchman also faced the people. "Yesterday," Miller continued, "Lamine Bhoutayeb and Katrine risked their lives to save one little boy who was trapped in the crossfire because he was not quick enough to run to the cathedral! Do you know who the boy was whose life Lamine and Katrine saved? Well, do you?"

When some in the crowd shook their heads, Charlie gave a cluck of annoyance. By now they should have known...

"The boy's name is Jacques Rimbaud, the son of this coward Gilles Rimbaud!" Shocked cries rose up in the square. "He chose to save his own skin first before even thinking his son might be somewhere still if not right beside him," Miller continued. "Why, you people might ask, did Gilles Rimbaud not leave the cathedral immediately and brave those same bullets that flew around Jacques, to search for his child, to save his son? What manner of a coward does this? If you are looking for traitors, collaborators and lily-livered men of St. Clair, I tell you now, here is one standing right in front of you! Look at him! See him for the out and out deserter he is, letting women of France fight battles he should have been engaged in!"

Charlie heard a slow hiss go up from the people. They were voicing their displeasure, of that he was certain, because the hissing was accompanied by angry stares at Rimbaud.

"Now he takes his fight to defenceless women! Shame on him!"

"Shame on him!" cried the people.

Miller pushed Rimbaud to the ground. Immediately Longman pitched forward intending to kick him. Lamine stopped him.

"You will live to fight another day, Private Longman. Let him go and let him reflect on his own cowardice."

"Go home, all of you! Party's over!" Davis shouted.

When they had cleared the square, Miller pulled Davis aside and issued a few instructions.

"We want these women guarded round the clock, understand?"

Davis click his heels and saluted.

"Yes, Captain!"

 **1730 - Katrine's apartment**

He sensed from the moment he placed his hand under her elbow that Katrine was stressed, in pain, shaking like a leaf and distraught at what had almost happened in the square. Her shivering continued all the way to her home. She led him along the Rue St. Agnes, past the _Coeur de Lion_ , to a building on the corner of St. Agnes and Rue Viete. It was afternoon and it would remain light till early evening. He cast her a glance but did not speak. Her teeth were chattering. Somehow it was in such contrast to when he'd met the feisty, strong leader of the Resistance movement, he wondered if Katrine had two personalities.

He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. She glanced up, her eyes grateful. A warmth swamped him when she quietly rested her head against his arm. So they walked on until she stopped at a door. Katrine turned the knob and opened the door.

" _S'il vous plaît_ , will you come in?" she asked, a pleading in her voice.

He nodded and entered. When the door closed behind them, he looked around the lounge. He immediately noticed the framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. One showed a man with a little girl. The man had curly dark hair, a beard, his eyes smiling as he looked at the little girl. Miller would ask Katrine about that later, he decided, unless she spoke of it herself.

He was instantly attentive when she stumbled against the table, giving a little cry of pain.

"Katrine, you are not well. You are still limping."

He grasped her slender shoulders, so very aware of the blue dress that seemed to accentuate the shape of her body. He had to rein in his emotions as he pressed her down gently on the couch. She sagged gratefully into it.

 _"Merci_ , _Charles_ , for everything you've done for us."

He sat down beside her and pulled her into his embrace. It was an instinctive move as he held her to him. She looked so close to breaking point he almost sensed the moment she was going to start weeping.

But he made her look at him, to try and veer off the urge to cry.

"You asked last night about my personal mission to you. So I have to tell you this first."

"You seemed to know me when we met," she stated. It felt to her a lifetime ago.

"My brother is Professor of History and International Affairs at Harvard University. A group of Harvard scientists wanted him to ask me to look you up when I entered France."

"I wrote them early in 1942," she said. Charlie noticed how Katrine's face creased with unhappiness and pain.

"Yes, they were concerned that they had not heard from you again. You asked for one of them to offer a home to your daughter so that she would be safe in the United States."

He watched how Katrine tried to rein in her emotions with superhuman strength. She jumped up, gave a cry of pain as she clutched her thigh. Tears sprang into her eyes.

"You don't know..."

"What happened to your husband and your daughter?"

"If only I had written again! If only I had sent Célestine!" she began wailing.

"Her name is Célestine?"

"They are dead! Both of them!"

Then Katrine began to weep in earnest. Her shoulders shook violently.

Charles stood up to comfort her, but she jerked away, her flailing arm knocking all the photos from the mantelpiece. They went flying to the floor, the glass shattering, the frames bent.

"Dead!"

Charlie bent to pick up the broken frames.

"How-how did they die?" he asked, almost afraid to hear her answer, yet sensing innately what she was going to say.

"They were Jews, you hear me? Jews! For that they were punished!"

Katrine lunged for him as he rose to his feet to place the frames back on the mantelpiece. She tried to thrust the pictures from his hands but he deftly moved so that her attempt proved fruitless. Her tears flew from her eyes, it seemed. When he'd stacked the three photos on the mantelpiece, he grabbed her arms. The sobs wracked her body. She began beating his chest, but he ignored the thumping as he gripped her shoulders. She winced; he realised belatedly that her one shoulder had been grazed by a bullet.

"How did they die, Katrine?" he asked again. Charles was certain now that Katrine had probably not spoken to anyone of her pain, of her tragic loss. "How?"

She pushed him violently away from her. This time he saw her eyes shoot angry sparks.

"They were taken from my home when my back was turned!" she sobbed. "Beaten and loaded on a truck like cattle. Cattle! Joseph and Célestine. She was so small, so innocent!"

Katrine paused, then sank to the floor. Just in time he caught her and brought her to the couch. She was so distressed, he wondered if he shouldn't take her back to their medical tents. But she clung to him, desperately trying to control the distress that threatened to derail her completely. He cradled her against him, rocking her while she cried her heart out.

His own eyes filled with tears. He knew pain and loss. A baby was waiting for him to come home, a baby with no mother and father. Katrine was drowning in her pain. He did not know how to offer her any solace other than just holding her. His shirt was soaked with her tears but he didn't care. She felt frail in his arms, frail and sad and lost, he thought. Lost. So he just held her. Through her window he could see it was slowly getting darker. How long had he sat with her? He had little idea of the time that had passed.

Or that Katrine had stopped her tormented weeping. On an impulse he pressed his lips against her hair. She stirred and raised her tear stained face. She gazed at him for what seemed like an eternity.

Then Katrine began to speak.

The last thing she remembered was Lucien Blériot raising the butt of his rifle. She'd woken in her bed with a concerned Lamine bending over her.

"Lamine Bhoutayeb was with you?"

"He crawled into our lives and Joseph, sweet Joseph who didn't have a discriminating bone in his body, treated him. He became our friend."

"What happened then?" Charles asked.

"We went to see Lucien Blériot. I was once engaged to him, but broke it off when I met Joseph and fell in love. Lucien...was a mistake... He laughed at us and told us they'd been taken to a concentration camp."

She remembered that day and a shudder passed through her body. They'd gone to see the magistrate at his official chambers. Lucien had been arrogant; he had the upper hand. He'd dismissed them from his office and ordered them not to bother him again. They'd left, but she had been demented as she tried to run back to confront Lucien again. Lamine stopped her, pulling her with him until they were back in the street again. She was about to scream her agony in the road, filled as she was with extreme hatred for Blériot. Lamine managed to calm her, holding her so that she couldn't looked away from his concerned gaze.

"We live to fight another day. We shall search for them."

"They're alive somewhere! I know it!"

"Katrine, you need to rest. You are too distraught."

"If we don't search right now, we're losing valuable time finding them! I cannot rest until I know what has happened to them!" she cried. "We must not stop looking!"

So they drew a map of the areas where they knew concentration camps had been built in Germany - Dachau, Natzweiler, Buchenwald, Bergen-Belsen... They travelled to Switzerland, to Belgium, even as far as Natzweiler in Germany. They were told in no uncertain terms that they did not have inmates by the names of Joseph and Célestine Blumenthal. They had been abused, rejected, Lamine spat upon. Yet she refused to give up on her search for her husband and daughter. In the evenings when they returned home exhausted after a day's fruitless search, Lamine would wind up her old phonograph and play soft music. But her body was in a state of continual turmoil, a constant restlessness that invaded her even in her sleep.

"Why did you decide to stop looking?" Charles asked.

Katrine's eyes were glazed as she turned to look at him, struggling to emerge into the present.

"One day when we returned from a search, we found the house had been burgled. They took nothing except a painting that had hung above the mantelpiece. Only that."

Katrine thought of that night. She'd noticed instantly that the painting was gone the minute they'd stepped into the lounge. It was something that had drawn her attention immediately - the rectangular mark where the painting had hung.

"Katrine?"

"It's gone!" she whispered desperately.

"What?" Lamine asked, too slow for her to notice that something was missing.

"The Matisse..."

"Oh, Katrine!" Lamine's voice was filled with compassion as he too, noticed the pale outline left by the missing painting.

She'd been devastated that the Matisse was stolen. But she had refused to weep over the loss of her painting. She blamed herself that she didn't hide it like they had done with artworks of owners in the Paris surrounds. Her tears for Joseph and Célestine had begun to flow inwards..

"Who could have done this?" she asked Lamine.

"I would not put two gold bars past that _batard_ Blériot. He must have something to do with this."

She looked wide-eyed at Lamine. Wide-eyed because it made so much sense. Nothing else from their home was taken, except the painting. Who would stand to gain by such a theft? Blériot had Nazi sympathies. He could easily have confiscated it. Katrine closed her eyes. Blériot had a lot to pay for. He hated her, hated that she chose to marry someone else.

"He is a coward, Katrine."

"More than that. Out of sheer jealousy he wanted revenge. He got his revenge. Now this..." she said softly as she gazed at the empty space above the mantelpiece.

"Why did you come to St. Clair?" Captain Miller asked. Again Katrine struggled to surface to the present.

She remembered how demented she had been in the months following Joseph and Célestine's capture. All the trails they followed, all the trails that ran dead, the rejections, the rebuffing, the cruelty of the Germans. She remembered how she refused to lie down and rest, remembering her little girl who played the violin with such extraordinary ability. Then one day...

"Lucien Blériot came to my home."

"What did he want that he had not already taken so violently from you?" Miller asked, shifting so that she could lie comfortably against him. She snuggled closer, closing her eyes at the memory of that day.

There was a knock on her door. Lamine had cautioned her not to open. He had gone to open the door.

"Where is Katrine?" Blériot asked.

"What do you want from her, Blériot?"

Blériot simply stepped over the threshold into her lounge as if he belonged there. He strutted like a Gestapo officer. In his hand he held a letter.

"Step out of the way, Bhoutayeb. My business is with Katrine."

"Then be done with your business. She has been hurt enough by you!"

"What do you want?" she asked Blériot.

"Here. A formal letter from German High Command. Do not say I do not give favours around here."

"I need no favours from you - " Katrine started, then stopped as she opened the letter and began to read.

Katrine gave a sob and sank slowly down to her knees. She heard Blériot's jackal-like laugh before he exited the lounge and slammed the door with a vicious bang. She thought she had no more tears. She had thought she could not weep any more than in the first month after her husband and daughter's disappearance. Her cheeks were wet, the letter falling from her lifeless fingers.

Lamine had picked up the letter and began reading aloud.

 _Dear Mme Blumenthal_

 _The German garrison in Paris have discovered a number of bodies in a field 20 miles from Paris. Two of the bodies are of your husband Joseph Eleazar Blumenthal and the other your daughter Célestine Héloise Blumenthal._

 _They have died before they could be taken to work camps in Germany. We understand that you have conducted searches for your family. We assure you that every prisoner had been documented and that your husband and daughter are not among the living._

 _Please do not continue your search. It is fruitless in the light of this communication to you. We encourage your co-operation in this regard._

 _The German Constabulary_

 _Paris._

"Katrine...Katrine..."

From a long way she heard Charles Miller's voice pulling her back, for she had begun to shiver violently again. He was concerned and so he pulled her closer in his embrace. She felt feverish, her forehead beaded with perspiration. The shudders took a long time to subside.

At last she straightened up, seeing with surprise that there were tears in his eyes too.

"I had no doubt that they were dead, _Charles_."

"Why? Did you lose hope then?"

"The hope that kept me going died that day. Lamine and I drove to that railway line deep in a forest glade. There were mounds. There were bodies lying there. It was winter, the bodies had decomposed. It was impossible to identify them. Joseph had been sick the day they were captured."

"They shot him right there in the forest," Charles stated flatly. "What about your daughter?"

"We found the bare remains of a child's body. It had to be that of Célestine. Her little teddy bear she always carried when she was not playing the violin lay there in the tall grass."

"I am sorry, so sorry to hear of their fate."

"Now I live on memories alone. I miss them, Célestine mostly. Joseph..." Katrine gave a deep sigh. "I loved him deeply. He was so positive, outgoing, loved sports..."

"Did he play sports?"

Katrine shook her head. "But he was involved. He was team doctor of the French team at the Olympics in Berlin in 1936."

Miller sat up straight, looking Katrine in the eye.

"I was in Germany in '36."

"Oh? Could you have met Joseph then?"

"I don't think so. I was rowing for the United States and spent most of the time in the Olympic village."

"Rowing?"

"Coxed eights. We won gold."

"Coxswain...was that you?"

"How did you know?"

"You were a leader even then, Charles Anson Miller."

Miller smiled grimly. They called him 'captain' at university.

"Joseph gave Berry a hard time!" Katrine continued, a gentle, reflective smile suddenly transforming her features. "That one raced with a damaged knee, mostly worried that Brigitte would kill him for falling from his bike. Joseph..." Katrine sighed deeply at the memory of her husband. "He was a good man."

"It never mattered that he was Jewish and I a non-Jew. Why should it have? We were in love; we saw no barriers for there were none. But when we married, we always knew Lucien Blériot would trouble us."

He noticed how tired she was becoming. He pulled her up. "You need sleep. I'll wait here and you can call me when you're ready."

"For what?" she asked, a sudden apprehension in her gaze. He clucked impatiently.

"I am going to stick around to make sure you are safe."

She looked very long at him, her eyes filling with tears again.

" _Merci_ ," she whispered."

"You are most welcome, Katrine du Plessis."

When Katrine vanished into her bedroom, Charlie sat down on the couch, his head in his hands, wondering how he was ever going to forget a pair of sad, sad, blue-grey eyes.

END CHAPTER NINE


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Especially for those reading this novel. I really do appreciate your comments.

CHAPTER TEN

 **St Clair July 22 1944**

Charles sat in a chair next to Katrine's bed. Her face was turned to him, her hand held in his. She didn't look as tired as earlier, nor as sleepy. In fact, the storm of tears she had shed had done her the world of good. Katrine had not wept for her husband and daughter since she had left Paris. She'd built a fortress around all those emotions that she believed would derail her, make her weak again.

Her hope, she believed, was gone.

Now, as she looked at him, there was a question in her eyes.

"You want to ask me something?" he asked.

"Who shot Jürgen Schult? All I know was that his head exploded next to me, his face gone. Tell me, please. I have wondered about it."

There was a heavy pause. Katrine frowned, her fingers digging into his hand. Charlie closed his eyes. It had been literally a long shot at two hundred yards off. He was forever grateful that he had a clear line of sight when he aimed at Schult.

" _Charles_?"

"I shot him."

"But, you were not in the square! Where were you?"

"In a building next to the munitions depot in the Rue St. Agnes."

Katrine frowned again. "That building is two hundred yards away!"

"Yes."

"And Welthagen? Did someone shoot him too from a great distance?"

This time Charlie smiled.

"Private Rheddam Compton, my most accident prone soldier, but when he lines up a target in his scope, he is all perfection."

Katrine gave a sigh and smiled.

"Tell me about Jürgen Schult," he asked quietly. Despite her smile, there were still some shadows lurking in her eyes.

After a short silence, she spoke. "I was his lover. I did not choose to be."

" _Je comprends_ ," he responded in French, to which Katrine raised an elegant eyebrow. "Do you think he had feelings for you, Katrine?"

There was a pause as she considered his words. "Perhaps," she said slowly. "He had time enough to kill me immediately. Maybe he wanted to negotiate a truce."

"I think he must have felt something."

"He is of the past now," she said, half raising herself from the pillow, her eyes filling with sudden fire.

"Good. St. Clair has been cleansed. You are free now."

"But not all of France."

"I know. That is our business here."

Katrine nodded, her eyes still a little sad.

"I will open the _Coeur de Lion_ tomorrow evening for business. You are welcome. When do you leave?"

He thought he saw some eagerness in her expression. His heart flipped. It disturbed him.

"On the thirty first of this month."

Her eyes were drooping, heavy with sleep. " _Je suis heureuse_..."

"I take it that means you are glad?"

"Hmmm..."

Charlie watched her fall asleep. Very gently he extricated his hand from hers. Then he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers in a feather light caress. She gave a little purr of contentment before sleep overcame her.

He left the room quietly and went back to her lounge, surprised at how dark it had become. Charlie walked to the mantelpiece where he'd stacked the broken photo frames earlier. He took the one with a picture of Katrine and Célestine. They laughed into the camera, their eyes bright, their hair in beautiful waves falling into their necks. They looked like sisters! Carefully he removed the photo from the frame, smiling back at the two open faces so full of life and freedom.

Then Charles Anson Miller carefully folded the photo and placed it inside _Caesar's Gallic Wars_ , covering it again with plastic before putting it his shirt pocket.

He left the house quietly. He needed to speak with Lamine Bhoutayeb in the morning.

 **Paris - December 1942**

He'd told Katrine he'd be away for a few days. He'd heard about a new faction of fighters in the north of France but he didn't want Katrine to accompany him. She'd received a communication from St. Clair that her great-uncle Henri du Pléssis had passed away and she needed time to reflect on whether to leave Paris.

"If I do, Lamine," she'd said, "it won't be a permanent move, you understand?"

" _Je comprehends_."

He'd made preparations to leave. It was a week after Katrine had been informed that Joseph and Célestine had died after all. She had been inconsolable for days. Then a strange calmness had set in. Katrine moved about the house like a caged tigress, one whose anger simmered beneath the surface.

The bodies of the unfortunate people who had been killed in the forest clearing outside Paris had been buried in a shallow grave. It had been impossible to identify Joseph, yet they knew one body had to be that of Katrine's husband because right next to him lay the body of a child that looked to be about six or seven years old. They'd spent two days arranging to have Katrine's loved ones reburied in the Paris cemetery with only Katrine, himself and two gravediggers present. He'd said a simple prayer and when he finished, he watched Katrine's lips move in wordless supplication. A simple cross marked their grave.

He had been angry a long time, since the day Lucien Blériot had so callously struck Katrine with his rifle. She had been unconscious and had not seen the truck move slowly down the Rue Lion. He'd given Lucien Blériot a furious look but couldn't react because Katrine needed immediate attention.

Lamine's heart had ached so acutely that he couldn't breathe properly for a few minutes before he'd scooped Katrine in his arms and rushed inside the house with her. At the last he had looked round at Lucien who grinned maliciously, then pointed his rifle as if he were going to shoot Lamine.

"I shall kill you first," Lamine hissed as he used his boot to kick the front door closed.

He laid her down on her bed. Her head was bleeding and when he traced the cut in her matted hair, he was alarmed at the deep gash. He had learnt enough from Joseph to treat cuts, gashes and burns. By the time he had put in the last suture, Katrine was regaining consciousness.

Recollection was instant and she began to wail heartbrokenly, cursing Lucien Blériot, damning him to hell and beyond. Lamine had quickly found a sedative in Joseph's medical bag and Katrine sputtered as she swallowed the pill.

When he had met Joseph and Katrine he had literally been at death's door, a bullet wound through the leg that had begun to fester. They treated him with love, equality, unconditional in their acceptance of him. He had lived with them for two years. He remembered Joseph's words, "In the eyes of God, every man is worthy."

What man, driven by jealousy, could so callously betray a fellow Frenchman? What man had so little worth as to consign an innocent child to certain death? What could Lucien Blériot gain by betraying someone he had once loved?

From that moment, Lamine hated Lucien Blériot.

He swore he'd take revenge one day, but right now, Katrine was beginning to lose consciousness again. He'd shaken her a little to keep her awake, not to lose sight of their new mission - to search for Joseph and Célestine.

Now he was on a quest, the nature of it unknown to Katrine. He sensed she suspected anyway, but he didn't care. He left in the dead of night, dressed in black, carrying a small ruck sack. Blériot lived alone in his house three miles from Rue Lion, a distance away from the magistrate's offices he served during the day.

Winter brought with it early darkness, dirty melting snow, black sky. It was a good time to enter the home of Blériot, who they had learnt through their underground contacts, had more enemies than they realised. He was the informant for the German forces in Paris, a sleazy individual with no moral code, a collaborator with the enemy.

In a very dark street he saw a vehicle, one he had seen from time to time in front of Katrine's home. Blériot's car, parked directly in front of his house. When Lamine reached the door he stood at one side and rang the door bell. No response. He rang again. No lights went on in the front room. He reckoned Blériot suspected foul play. But Lamine heard footsteps. He'd already retrieved a black balaclava from his ruck sack and pulled it over his head. His voice would be dimmed speaking through the woollen fabric. Blériot would not recognise his voice.

"Who is there?"

"I have heard of a plot to kill you. I have come to warn you."

" _Qui êtes- vous_?"

"A friend of the Reich."

Lamine shook his head in disbelief as the door opened. Was Blériot so assured of his untouchability that he actually believed the drivel he'd just been fed?

In one swift move Lamine banged the door back against Blériot who fell to the floor. Light streamed from a back room, probably the kitchen. Blériot's pistol went flying across the room. He grabbed Blériot round his neck in a vise grip while he kicked the front door closed. In the dim light Lamine moved to pick up the pistol. Blériot's arms flailed, but Lamine increased the pressure of his grip around the collaborator's neck.

"Your bedroom, Blériot. Do not scream or I will shoot you. Now!"

The magistrate raised a hand to point to a passage. Lamine dragged him down the passage and stopped by a door.

"Open the door!" he hissed.

When the door opened, Lamine hauled the choking man to the bed and pushed him down. Then he cocked the pistol, a German Luger courtesy of the Gestapo and pressed it against his forehead. Blériot began to tremble.

"Please, please, do not kill me. I have a wife and children."

"A little late in the day to plead for them, coward!"

Blériot's wife and children were not in the house. He'd had the house watched for days without Katrine's knowledge. After his broken engagement, Blériot had since taken a wife and had children. It had certainly never stopped him from pestering the Du Pléssis-Blumenthal family.

"Where are they?" he barked the question, pressing the pistol harder against Blériot's temple.

"At La Baule. They are there."

"What is La Baule? Speak!"

"A seaside resort." Blériot began to whimper, his eyes wide with fear.

"When you take away from someone that which they loved most in their life, like a child, a husband, you forget that the same fate will befall you."

"Please...please, I beg you!"

"That's right, Blériot. Think how Katrine pleaded for mercy!"

Lamine pulled a pillow from the bed, pressed it against the side of Blériot's face. When he tried to fight off Lamine, he was rewarded with a sound thump to the stomach. Blériot gasped. Right at that moment, Lamine pressed the Luger hard against the pillow. Blériot's eyes widened with shock. Lamine smiled.

"This is for Katrine, you miserable _batard_!"

He fired the shot. Blériot slumped back on the bed. No sound was heard. Blériot lay bleeding from the head, his eyes and mouth wide open. In death, Lamine thought, Blériot looked like a grotesque dead clown. He calmly wiped the butt of the pistol with his shirt front, carefully wrapping Blériot's finger around the trigger. It would look as if Blériot had shot himself and didn't want the neighbours to hear.

"Rat!" Lamine hissed as he carefully retraced his steps to the front door and left quietly, vanishing through the dark streets of Paris. In a dark alley he removed his balaclava. He walked through back streets to the outskirts of the city. Near a river he found a ditch. He would spend the night there, sleep with his eyes open and in the morning he would be on the road again. It was freezing and he shivered a long time before getting up again to move. It would be better to keep moving. Lamine walked until dawn broke grey in the skies. He was hungry and tired but felt the whole world belonged to him.

He had no compunction in killing Lucien Blériot. All his compassion was reserved for Katrine du Pléssis-Blumenthal. It was reserved for Joseph Blumenthal who took Katrine's last name in order to protect himself from rats like Blériot. Joseph who had given him, Lamine, back his life and opened a new world for him. His compassion was reserved for little Célestine whom he loved, who played her violin when he was so ill, a little girl who had no reservations about loving him as another uncle in her household. Traitors and Nazi sympathisers like Blériot did not deserve a single iota of sympathy.

The next day he returned home, a worried Katrine fawning over him because he was hungry and exhausted. She never asked him what he had been up to, although his own feigned excuse of the previous day was not enough to convince her. Once he had eaten and cleaned himself, he put on a recording. The soft music - a slow Chopin adagio - filled the room and he sagged against the couch and closed his eyes, allowing the beauty of it to suffuse him and to fill him with peace, his rage slowly seeping from his body.

Only then he spoke.

"Lucien Blériot will never trouble you again."

The following day appeared in _Le Figaro_ a short notice that the magistrate of the Paris district had committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. The article took up only a single paragraph of a column.

It was a sad testament that in death, Lucien Blériot had been considered unimportant to the German cause, a cause for which he had sold his soul...

The light shone through the window of the first floor room of the new US army headquarters. From a long, long way off, Captain Charles Miller's voice pierced through his consciousness, to bring him back to the present. Lamine stared at him then blinked a few times.

"Does Katrine know that you killed Blériot?"

"I never told her exactly what I did, but she guessed it anyway. In that respect Katrine is very sharp, Captain Miller. A lot like you, I suspect."

"She told me much of what had happened to her husband and daughter, but left out how Blériot came to his end."

"You must understand, Katrine had been nearly demented with grief, but when the final knell was sounded on their fate, she stopped weeping. I knew that her tears fell into her heart, that grieving had not stopped, although all hope that they were alive had gone."

Miller nodded solemnly, his heart aching for Katrine.

"You have feelings for her..."

"W-What?"

Miller wanted to refute Lamine's words but knew he could not deny them. It was too soon. He had not felt anything for any woman since Lucy broke off with him. Not in any romantic way, anyway.

"She needs support, Captain, to believe again that happiness is possible."

He nodded, then scraped the chair as he got up. There were a few more things he had to do today. Lamine had been the first. He too stood up and saluted Miller before he left.

In the morning Katrine woke, stretching her arms above her on the pillow, her eyes widening when she realised there was very little pain in her shoulder and leg. Her heart felt lighter than it had since Joseph and Célestine were taken. She could look back and not feel the weight of her loss bearing her down, to pretend all was well with the world inside the _Coeur de Lion_ , then go home only to feel the boulder of her sorrow pressing her down again.

She gave a deep sigh. She knew that she would forever miss her loved ones, but time had a way of dimming her pain. Jürgen Schult had always made her feel like the whore he called her. He'd had no compassion and simply took from her what he needed for the moment.

Lying with him in her bed had brought her no pleasure for all the effort he had always tried to insinuate into what he called their lovemaking. Until Jürgen Schult arrived in St. Clair, her only reference to a fulfilling relationship and intimacy had been Joseph.

Now she could reflect on her late husband and think about their good times, how he'd always made her feel in their bed. They had been young, sometimes impetuous, but mostly with a common goal which was cemented when Célestine was born.

Another man was causing her to bring to the surface feelings she had believed hidden, under control, layers of ice covering them. She didn't want to forget Joseph, wanted to treasure her memories of him. Yet the coal black eyes of Charles Miller kept creeping into her vision. He was handsome with his jet black hair, dimples in his cheeks and a smile that threatened to melt away the first layer of ice that had formed around her heart. She was drawn to the strength that exuded from him, the confidence and leadership that seemed to have been a part of him since since adulthood.

He protected her in the dire situations she and her team found themselves in. He took charge of every situation, some of them considered long before he entered St. Clair.

For two years, people had leaned on her for guidance, for leadership. Two long years in which she had eventually become exhausted. She was so tired! She so badly wanted to lean against someone strong enough who didn't have to invite her to take refuge with him.

She'd found that man.

For a few minutes she allowed the thrill of his touch and his kiss to wash over her. He'd looked so concerned, so protective that she wanted to keep on enjoying the feeling of leaning on him. But she was realistic. Charles Anson Miller had blown into St. Clair like a fresh breeze, cleansing the town. Their appeals to Allied High Command had been answered. She had learned that Charles' company had made a detour to St. Clair. They would move on, away from the town they had liberated, to be forgotten once they'd rejoined their regiment and freed other towns and cities.

Their impact was extraordinary, something that would linger for years. She would miss their presence, she would miss Miller.

Katrine got out of bed the moment she decided she'd had enough of meandering into dreams about Charles Miller. By the time she walked into her lounge, she was dressed, an off-yellow dress like her blue one, with shoulder pads that made her look like a Hollywood actress.

Then she noticed two of the framed photos standing on the mantelpiece, but the third one was missing. Katrine frowned. Did she destroy the one with her and Célestine completely? But the broken frame lay flat and when she lifted it, the picture was gone.

Only Charles Miller could have removed it. Katrine smiled to herself. She was not going to harass him to return it. He could keep the memento, take it with him wherever the battleground would be.

It was time to go to the _Coeur de Lion_ and make preparations for the evening. She hoped that Miller's troops would support them. They could use an infusion of American dollars now that there would be no more _Reichmarks._ Katrine gave a satisfied sigh as she left her home. The mop up operation had been completed. The Americans knew their work; they had protocols in place. On the outskirts of the town, they had incinerated the bodies of the Germans. She was not sorry to see the end of Jürgen Schult. More than anything, he represented all that was evil about the Reich.

It was just one block to the restaurant. There was movement about the town, young men and boys riding their cycles, women walking towards the cafes and bakery. She saw many children, realising with a pang that they were still on school vacation. Célestine would have been with her now, on vacation, going to Maestro Sargozy for her music lessons.

For a moment only she allowed the pain to flood her.

"Katrine! Katrine!"

She looked up and saw Berry and Brigitte hurrying towards her. Katrine frowned. They were holding hands! What was happening? These two fought constantly, with Berry always claiming it was because Brigitte loved him but wouldn't admit it. They were smiling! Had they made peace at last?

" _Ah, qu'est-ce qui se passe_ _?_ Berry and Brigitte engaged in a truce, for once!" she said, hugging Brigitte when they reached her.

"We are engaged, but not in a truce you think of!" cried Brigitte breathlessly. "Congratulate us!"

"Oh, congratulations. What brought this on?"

"She has finally said she will marry me!" cried Berry. "I have waited all my life for this."

Berry was beaming from ear to ear, his joy boundless! Katrine sobered. It could have been her pregnant. Schult was never a cautious man in her bed. The two young people saw her expression. Berry's hand covered Brigitte's swollen belly.

"This is my son here, Katrine, and one day he shall ride the _Tour de France_!"

Katrine smiled with relief. She was happy for Brigitte who had sacrificed much and who deserved happiness. Brigitte had told her about Robert Davis who was also here in St. Clair with the troops. That was in the past now. People moved on. It was an inevitability of life. She should remember that about her life with Joseph.

She was also moving on. It was hard, but it was inevitable.

"Then I am very happy for you."

"Monseigneur Girardeau is prepared to perform the ceremony. But we do not want to marry in the cathedral."

"He said he is okay with the idea!" Brigitte piped up.

"He said he understood, about us, about Brigitte, Katrine," Berry added with a sober air.

"Do you have any other place in mind?"

"Why, naturally! The _Coeur de Lion_!" cried Berry, his excitement so infectious that Katrine felt the pleasure build in her too.

"Well then, the _Coeur de Lion_ it is"

Eugene Linklater scuffed his boot on the ground outside the door of Sandrine's home. He and Private Ohlsson were assigned to protect Sandrine Desmarais, sharing sentry duty. If Lieutenant Davis saw either one of them in dereliction of that duty, they'd be put on report. That was not as bad as being rebuked in Davis's famous Brooklyn slang. The man was American aristocracy, but he always tried to speak like the gangsters of New York. He should be a goddam actor in a goddam movie.

He'd sent Ohlsson off early, after working out a timetable for the two of them. Ohlsson complained about being in the night shift, but he'd waived it.

"How about I give you two more packs of cigarettes?"

"You never share!"

"Were you blind, Ohlsson? Didn't you even look at Sandrine Desmarais?"

He'd clicked his tongue impatiently. Ohlsson never talked about girls the way the rest of their gang did. He was inclined to think Ohlsson wasn't into girls, but surely that didn't stop him from at least looking at them, for crying out loud?

He'd liked Sandrine the minute he laid eyes on her. He knew their time in St. Clair was going to be short. But Los Angeles, California was a long way away. He might not even survive this war, though Lord knew it was going to be heavy going when they left St. Clair. They still had to advance to Paris and from there into real enemy territory.

He'd walked with her, bursting a path open between the men who'd wanted to shave their heads. What a goddam spineless thing to do. Women and men fell in love, didn't matter how different their backgrounds were, or their nationalities, like Othello and Desdemona. Last book he'd done in high school. Never mind that their love was doomed. Sandrine could not close her heart when she fell for a German. Maybe he was a handsome bugger like Davis or Captain Miller.

When she stopped at her door, she looked at him and smiled. His heart did a double flip. Her lips were rosy-red and her eyes liquid-golden. Her auburn hair was long and wavy.

" _Merci de nous avoir sauvées_ ," she said.

He didn't understand a word she said, but it felt like she was saying 'thank you' just by the tone of her voice. When he frowned, she tried in English.

"Thank you?"

"Yes. And you are welcome. I am Eugene Linklater. What is your name?"

"Sandrine. Sandrine Desmarais."

"We will remain here, outside your door, in case those bastards come for you again."

" _Batards_?"

"Yes, exactly. _Batards_!"

Sandrine had approached her front door, which had opened and an elderly man waited for her there. He thought it was her grandfather, for he was in tears when he hugged her like a long lost child. Then he said _merci boucoup_ before entering the house again.

Linklater stayed until past twelve that night when Ohlsson came on duty. He hadn't yet seen any of the Frenchmen around. He'd gone to his tent and couldn't sleep for a while, even after smoking three cigarettes.

He came on duty at 0700. He'd already smoked two cigarettes. Only at around 0930 did the door open again. Sandrine came out and looked surprised, like she was asking, "You again?"

"Hi!" he started.

Sandrine replied with a hesitant "Hi."

"I must walk with you, okay? Where are you going?"

" _Boulangerie_."

"Bou - what?"

"Bake," she said by way of explaining.

"Oh. Bakery. _Boulangerie_. I should remember that."

She began walking while he kept abreast with her, his rifle held like a lovable teddy-bear. So they kept up their stilted conversation which began flowing a little more as they learned new words in French and English. When she returned home, he went inside with her. On the way they passed one of the men who wanted to shave her head. She'd hissed at him while he, Eugene, simply pointed his rifle at the man's crotch.

"I hope we'll be here long enough for the women in the town to take a stand against those gutless cowards," he barked.

" _Quoi_?"

"Don't worry, my dear. He got the message."

"Oh."

"Say, you want to walk around the town with me? Until tonight, then we can visit the Coeur - something."

" _Coeur de Lion_."

"Yes. That."

So they walked about the town. She pointed out buildings of interest, like the library, the inside of the cathedral with its stained glass windows, the small winery where they pressed their own grapes from the wine estates in the region.

Later he held her hand. Sandrine glanced at him and smiled. He felt his insides flip again. He was going to be really, really sorry to leave St. Clair.

The _Coeur de Lion_ was buzzing with activity tonight. To Katrine it was so different from a week ago when German soldiers sat around drunk with wine, their smoke filling the restaurant and the ever present threat of Jürgen Schult making demands on her.

On those days she had been mostly worried, but kept up a brave, smiling face.

Now the war was over, for St. Clair at least. They would have peace and work was in progress to rebuild and renovate some of the buildings that had been damaged. It was a jolly crowd, the Americans singing ribald songs whenever Solange was on a break.

She was happy for Solange, who could not keep her eyes off Lamine. When had that happened? The continuous spats between Brigitte and Berry were always out in the open, though their announcement of engagement and marriage did come as a surprise to her. But Lamine, always very private about his personal life, never gave any indication that he was interested in Solange. Katrine shook her head, incredulous at the turn of events.

She looked around the restaurant. In another corner sat four infantrymen. She recognised Robert Davis. Brigitte described him as the handsomest American this side of the Atlantic. With his shocking blue eyes and almost white blond hair he stood out in the _Coeur de Lion_ , and in Berry's words, really like a foreigner. They were deep in conversation, the one with a cigarette dangling from his mouth gesticulating furiously. The other two couldn't seem to stop laughing.

Berry and Brigitte were sitting together holding hands. They had eyes only for each other. They would marry the day before the troops were to leave St. Clair. They had been joined this afternoon in a quiet civil ceremony by the town magistrate.

She glanced around from time to time, hoping to see one face, but she kept smiling, talking to a patron here and sitting next to one at another table for a brief conversation. But her heart thundered every time a new patron in uniform arrived in the restaurant. She stood at the counter and Lamine, busy shining glasses as usual, leaned over. Right at that moment Solange launched into another song.

 _There's a somebody I'm longing to see  
I hope that he turns out to be  
Someone who'll watch over me  
I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood_

 _Someone who'll watch over me..._

She loved the song, loved how it fitted with Brigitte and Berry's love story. Sometimes they had heard it over their radio in Paris. Célestine had listened to it with rapt attention. The music was melodious, given more sensuality by Solange's purring voice.

Katrine's eyes darted around the restaurant, sighing as she lifted her glass of wine contemplatively to her lips.

"He is not coming?"

"Schult is dead."

"Shot dead by the very man whose presence you seek here."

She wanted to damn Lamine for being right. Without looking at him, she retorted, "Perhaps he has things to do..."

"Then I am right. Captain Miller is a busy man."

"Indeed."

"But you were hoping he'd be here."

There was a note to Lamine's voice which clearly suggested that she not deny his assertion.

Katrine sighed. She really hoped Charles would be here tonight. She had invited him and his platoon members who were available to enjoy an evening in the _Coeur de Lion_. What could he be occupied with right now? It was already past ten. Not late for a restaurant by any French standard. The patrons were still enjoying themselves, smoke wafted up in the room, wine flowed and American dollars were rolling in.

"You are right, as usual, Lamine," she said, taking another sip from her glass.

" _Mon Dieu_!" cried Brigitte Beaumont when she paused in her conversation long enough to look at the entrance. "If it were not that I'm marrying you, Berry, I'd have him. But then he's taken," she said in an awed voice.

"Who took him?" Berry asked.

" _Stupide_!" Brigitte cried softly, punching his arm hard.

Berry rubbed his arm. It was good being punched again by Brigitte. Of course he knew the captain of the regiment was already taken. Beautiful Katrine and handsome Captain Miller. Everyone knew, from that day he lifted Katrine at the fountain like she weighed nothing after Miller put a bullet through Schult's head. Those who were near heard the tenderness in the captain's voice when he held her in his arms. Others said that she looked at him with love in her eyes before she said " _Charles_ ".

At the table where Davis, Linklater, Compton and Longman sat, Compton glanced at the entrance to see who had entered.

"Holy mackerel!" he hissed softly. "Lookee there! Captain Miller looking like General Eisenhower already!"

Captain Charles Miller entered the _Coeur de Lion_ quietly. If he had hoped to make an unannounced entry, that hope was dashed when he heard Linklater whistling through his teeth. He glared at Linklater who stopped instantly.

He'd decided to wear his dress jacket over freshly pressed trousers, the red diamond on his left shoulder and left side of his garrison cap looking extra red. He removed the cap and held it in his hand. The restaurant was full, with almost all tables occupied.

Katrine had seen everyone else gawking at the door when she too, turned to look. She stifled a little gasp. A warmth swamped her. Charles look very military to her. He was dressed differently from his men, perhaps the dress uniform officers wore. She knew about the red diamond which Lamine had explained earlier was the insignia of their regiment. Miller was looking for a vacant table and there was none. Only one, near a window, had one occupant. She knew the middle aged gentleman. So she walked over to him.

"Please, Monsieur Montand, I am sure Monsieur Beaumont would love your company."

"I see your rescuer has arrived, Mme du Pléssis. I reserve my table for you with great honour!" Montand said before he saluted and made his way to Brigitte's grandfather. Then she moved towards Captain Miller, outwardly calm although her heart was racing.

She touched his elbow, his eyes widening when he saw her. She'd been standing almost hidden at the counter. Charlie took a deep breath, trying to prevent his heart from hammering so hard. She was dressed in a white tuxedo, her hair in waves about her face like Ingrid Bergman.

"I thought you might not come," she said.

"You look...beautiful," he said as he allowed her to guide him to a table. When he sat down, he was surprised that she sat down opposite him. "I - " he began, pausing suddenly, "I wasn't going to come."

Katrine raised her hand and a waiter appeared from nowhere, it seemed. "A glass of Picard Shiraz for Captain Miller," she ordered. The waiter nodded and drifted off to Lamine behind the counter. Katrine touched Charles's hand. She felt suddenly afraid.

"Why not, _Charles_?" she asked, giving his name the French inflection.

Solange had finished her song. One of the men walked over to the pianist and after a few words, Claude nodded. The infantryman had a harmonica in his hand. The soft strains of an Irving Berlin song filled the air.

"Why not?" Katrine asked again.

Charles appeared unaware of the bustle around them, of the music that played softly in the background, of the eyes of his men on the two of them. He remained silent, only lifting his head to the waiter who brought him his glass of shiraz. He held the glass, twirling the stem absently as he looked at the superlative red-burgundy liquid.

"I was engaged once, to my high school sweetheart. Her name is Lucy." Charles paused, a faraway look in his eyes. "I was at the University of Washington and after that, West Point - "

"West Point?"

"Military Academy."

Katrine nodded her understanding.

"We wrote letters..."

Katrine could see how the memory pained him. "What happened to her?" she asked quietly.

"After West Point I joined the 5th Armoured Infantry Division, was stationed far from home, in other countries. One day I returned home on a month long leave. I wanted to marry Lucy."

Charles wore no wedding band as she saw with Robert Davis. Still, some men never wore a band.

'What happened?" she asked, frowning, wondering where the conversation was leading to.

Charles took a sip of the wine, then put the glass down. "Lucy was married and pregnant. No one in the family told me in their letters..."

She saw his brow knitting furiously together before visibly controlling himself. The memory of his fiancée marrying someone else disturbed him greatly. But surely people moved on, especially when in the flush of youthful love, like Brigitte and Robert Davis? Even she had accepted that Joseph would never ever return. She had to move on. Perhaps she had already started as she looked into the pain-filled eyes of Captain Charles Miller.

"Over great distances, never knowing when your letters would arrive or hoping to receive any from home. Did you blame her?" Katrine asked.

"I was angry, blinded by my fury because my mother and my sister didn't have the courage to tell me the truth. They tried to stop me..."

"Doing what?"

"Injuring them both."

Katrine gasped softly, but Charlie raised his hand and smiled tightly.

"Eventually I forgave her and my brother - "

"Your brother? Lucy married your brother?"

"I almost killed him. I felt like a hound. Edward was crippled as a child through polio. He...walks with difficulty."

"I am sorry to hear that, Charles."

"Don't be. They have a beautiful son whom they named after me. They also have a little girl named Winonah."

"But the memory still pains you, I can see that."

"I thought a lot about it today, you know? I lost Lucy because I was never a constant in her life."

" _Charles_?"

"I - " he began, "I am developing feelings...for you, Katrine. I don't want those feelings. We leave here in a few days to resume hostilities against the Germans. Paris is our next objective. I - "

Katrine leaned forward and covered his hand with hers.

"You are afraid you will not survive this war..." There was a flash behind Katrine's eyelids as she remembered Joseph screaming that she save herself. Joseph knew he would not survive. Yet here was another man who was fast creeping into her own heart. "You do not want to lose your heart?"

"I will never see you again. Writing letters will not be enough."

"You are no longer in the flush of youth anymore. Neither am I. Perhaps letters are what will bind us, don't you think?" she asked, her voice hopeful.

Charles gave her a stricken look before he rose quickly to his feet, grabbed his garrison cap and strode purposefully out of the _Coeur de Lion._ Katrine got up and moved back to the counter where Lamine waited for her.

"Let me guess - he will go into battle and die heroically on the battlefield leaving a grieving loved one - you - pining for him."

" _Mon Dieu_! How can you be so right?" Katrine asked. Then she coolly boxed her distress and began moving about from table to table, instructing everyone to enjoy themselves as long as they left their troubles outside.

It was long after twelve when Katrine finally closed the door of the _Coeur de Lion._ She was exhausted, brought on mostly by her acute disappointment that Captain Charles Miller had left so early with no indication that he wanted to have anything further to do with her. He admitted that he felt something he didn't want to feel primarily because he'd been burned before as well as the prospect of not surviving the war.

Paris was the Americans' next stop, a sprawling city with a much heavier German presence. Loss of life was always an absolute fact of war. Yet she sensed in him a great soldier, an indestructible warrior who fought with valour and distinction. He would survive, of that she was certain. But love and war made young people impetuous and made the more mature cautious. She couldn't blame him, yet she was disappointed. She wanted to get to know him better. There were so many facets about him, so many things that made him so enigmatic but drew him to her.

Her own heart had already capitulated. Joseph would always hold a special place there. But like so many people who, separated from their loved ones through death or distance, moved on with their lives, so she had to as well. It had pained her when Jürgen Schult cruelly used her memory of Joseph to bed her. Surely she too would be graced by God for a new chance at happiness?

She walked in the dark towards her home. Along the way she could see men from Charles' regiment standing guard at the homes of the women who had been identified by Gilles Rimbaud and his cronies to shave their heads. She grinned. Another brilliant strategy of the captain of the regiment. He would tell her they were simply taking precautions. It made her feel safe. She wondered if anyone was posted outside her door. Last night Charles had stayed with her most of the time when she was still recovering from her injuries. In fact she felt very little pain now. Perhaps there was someone, she just hadn't noticed. Maybe Charles...

Sighing, she reached her front door and turned the knob to enter her lounge. As always it was dark whenever she returned, but now she frowned. Music played softly, a Chopin nocturne. She switched on the light, gasping sharply when she saw Charles Miller sitting on her couch. Warmth seared through her body seeing him sitting there looking a little forlorn.

He stood up but did not move from his position. His eyes were heated, his lips moved but no sound issued from them.

" _Charles_?"

"I - I could not stay away," he stammered.

Her heart sang. Slowly she moved closer to him and stood on tiptoe to touch his cheek with her hand, his eyes closing at the soft touch. Her heart hammered, throbbing so strongly that each pulse was a pain and joy at the same time. Her breath must have deserted her for each intake was so painful that a soft cry escaped her.

"Look at me," she pleaded. "Please."

Charles opened his eyes and gave a little sob. He looked vulnerable, a raw expression in his eyes.

"Let your heart speak, _Charles._ Let your heart tell you it is as it should be."

The pain in his eyes seemed to dissolve, hope flickering until it flared brightly. He touched her cheek with trembling fingers. The fear had left him.

"It is as it should be…" he said softly.

" _Les choses sont comme elles doivent être_ ," she whispered.

He groaned as he pulled her closer, uttering another sob as he lowered his head. She could feel his breath on her face, warm, warm breath that carried with it the promise of a kiss. She drowned a little as his lips touched hers, a slow, searing, brief caress that burst in a shower of stars upon her closed eyes. Then he brushed her lips again, a soft growl rising from his chest as her mouth opened under his.

"Katrine...Katrine..." he whispered and his voice filled her, entering every dark corner of her being where only pain and sorrow had dwelled for so long, giving light and pulsing joy. She realised with wonder that tears were flowing when his thumb caressed her cheek. He broke contact and in her daze she cried at the loss of his touch.

"It is as it should be," he said hoarsely as he lifted her and carried her to her bedroom.

He couldn't help himself. Katrine was a siren, a kitten, a tigress, a beautiful woman whose very nearness drove him crazy with want. He had tried to keep away, tried to save himself from more pain, greater sorrow. If he kept away he'd be safe. But he didn't want to be safe.

He undressed her slowly, enjoying her soft murmur as he removed her white jacket, his hand grazing her full breast, her nipples springing erect at the merest whisper of a touch. A muffled cry as his mouth covered her nipple. Another agonised cry when he unbuttoned her satin blouse until that too, slipped inelegantly to the floor, working away at the straps of her bra. Her breasts sprang free. With a cry he buried his face against her bosom, his head spinning in a vortex of pleasure.

" _Charles_... _Charles_..." she kept whispering, his name sounding like a litany.

How had he been divested so soon from his own dress jacket? And his shirt? And his freshly pressed trousers? Did their movements harmonise so that they were hardly aware they were undressing one another? Fingers unhurried, assertive, dancing in a concert of movement in which, like an orchestral counterpoint, their raiment connected with the floor. He gazed at her skin, translucent, creamy, soft to the touch.

He breathed her and it filled him, a sensation of swirling thickness in his head that caused an inexplicable feeling of vertigo. He trailed his mouth down her bosom, across the plane of her belly, paused to dip his tongue into her navel. This time a cry of ecstasy escaped her as she gripped his head, trying to move away from the acute sensual impulses, yet dying to experience the waves of pleasure again and again. His lips burned her skin as they explored and extracted her willingness to reveal her innermost desires to him.

" _Charles_...oh, _Charles_..."

He was on his knees, felt her shuddering when his mouth reached her core. He touched her there, lapped against her, feeling a throbbing against his tongue. Then suddenly he rose to his feet and lifted her high against him, his arousal pressing painfully into her. She threw her head back in delight.

He let her slide down then laid her on the bed and looked at her exquisite body, every nerve in him wanting to connect with hers. She was beauty, she was his, the thought raced through him as he lay next to her, shifting so that her legs parted. Charles looked deeply into her eyes that were warm and wanton. Her lips parted, her heat bouncing off her and enveloping him.

With a strangled cry he joined his body with hers.

He dreamed. The dream filled every pore and sinew of his body. Dark apparitions that would not show him their faces. He tried running after them, to halt their darting between trees in a dark forest. One lamp burned; high from a pylon it showered its light in a corona across the street.

Then there were other phantoms, darker than the first who in turn chased them. _Run, run, my love!_

They ran, but soon the picture changed to a car. It rained. It was dark again. A phantom behind the tree. The phantom waved to them, beckoning them to catch it. Wet road, wheels slipping, rushing to the phantom behind the tree.

"Winonah!"

Charles rocked up, gasping for air. It was dark, but a moment later a bedside lamp flooded the room in light. He looked around him, dazed. He saw Katrine and blinked several times as if he struggled to recognise her.

"Charles? _Charles_! You dreamed. It is alright. Shhh..."

Too distraught to speak, he hauled her into his arms and held her, shuddering for a long time until it eased away. Katrine caressed his arm, his cheek that felt damp. Charles expelled a deep sigh. He slumped against the pillow and she leaned over him, resting on her elbow.

"You had a nightmare. Want to tell me about it?" she ventured, knowing that she too had had nightmares in which figures were not defined but formless entities that haunted her.

"My sister Winonah. Edward and I doted on her. She was the youngest. Open, loving, with a love of life that infected everyone around her. She was like that, inspiring people."

"Then is that not a good memory?"

"I buried my sister and her husband a year ago. They were so young. I was on duty in Iceland and flew home. They died in a car crash not far from their home."

"I am so very sorry to hear that, Charles!"

"I dream often of them, especially Winonah. Know what her last words to me were?"

Katrine shook her head.

"You are under orders to stay alive."

"Then she died."

"Yes. Edward and Lucy named their baby girl Winonah, in her memory."

Charles lay, gazing at Katrine with his heart in his eyes. It was always difficult to speak of the tragedies in his life, yet he poured his heart out to her. Sighing, he pulled her into his embrace.

"That is not all, is it?" Katrine whispered.

"Their baby Evan was only a year old when his parents died. They named me Evan's legal guardian."

"You have a son?"

Charles stilled for a long time. Then he turned his face to her, seeing her eyes welling up. She'd lost a child. Evan had lost his Mama.

"Yes..."

Then Katrine wept and Charles Miller held her until her tears stopped.

"One day," he began, "the gods will smile on us and grant us the happiness we crave for."

 _5th Infantry Division_

 _10th regiment_

 _Company A_

 _July 25 1944_

 _Dear Edward_

 _I am still alive and well and kicking [some Jerry's butt]! I'm very happy to know that little Evan is doing well. I plan on adopting him when I return home. I like the thought of calling him my son. Winonah and Lansing would have wanted that._

 _We arrived on the Normandy coast of Sugar Beach and made our way south towards Coumond where we assisted the 1st Infantry Division to liberate that town. We suffered no casualties in Coumond. Our target was Vidouville where the Germans stationed their Panzer Division. We were assisted in the air by our 101st Airborne Division. It was heavy going, my brother. We lost good men in Vidouville, including one of my best. The young man died in my arms._

 _After the battle at Vidouville we received new orders and guess what? The 5th Armoured Infantry has been assigned to the 3rd Army under General George S. Patton. Boy, am I glad to be working under such a great man! I'm sure you can see the movement of the Allied Forces towards the German stronghold in Berlin and the liberation of the camps. It is inevitable and we'll be right in the middle of it. There will be no rest until Germany is defeated._

 _Edward, I found Katrine._

Charlie paused his writing, nipping the pen as he stared thoughtfully out the window. A lone American flag hung over the fireplace, the desk filled with his documents and reports. The radio had been fixed so they had radio communication with Allied High Command.

Katrine.

He was not ever going to be able to sever the bond that had formed between them. He couldn't stop himself, knowing that if he did, he would have continued on his journey forever haunted by Katrine's blue eyes and her sad smile. It was a choice he made, whatever the consequences. Katrine had already passed through such a rite of passage when she lost her husband and child. She knew of consequences, living by them and being more ready than him to face them.

He pictured her in her bed. He had woken with her lying snugly in his arms, staring up at him, a finger tracing the scar he'd picked up at Vidouville. The night was theirs, a night filled with love, their soft murmurings, his dreams, her dreams, pain, tears, sadness, joy.

"Hey..." He imagined he saw a glint of uncertainty in her eyes. He kissed her gently. "What is it?"

"Will you come again tonight?"

"How can I stay away now?"

"Thank you," she murmured, then buried herself against him, revelling in the feel of his body. He couldn't ignore the softness, how pliant her body was, how willing to feel their closeness again.

"Katrine..." he'd groaned as he took her again, only emerging more than an hour later when they sat down to a light breakfast.

He thought how she whimpered helplessly as he carried her over the edge. Afterwards, Katrine had wept quietly and he asked her whether he had not pleasured her enough. She told him that for the first time since her husband was taken away from her, she could feel again. He had unlocked what had been encased in ice for so long. She'd always thought that she would never again experience that complete sense of surrender to another man. What could he tell Edward? That he and Katrine made love so beautifully that he understood for the first time what it really meant to be one with another person?

 _Katrine was not in Paris as we had all assumed, but in a town called St. Clair. Katrine's husband was Jewish. Two years ago he was betrayed in Paris. Joseph and their daughter were captured from their home, just as Katrine was returning from an assignment as a Resistance leader. Both husband and daughter have subsequently died. They were shot dead during transit to one of the concentration camps. Katrine and a Senegalese soldier friend made every attempt to trace them until late in December, when she was given final confirmation of their deaths._

He remembered - was it only three days ago? - how demented she had been in her home telling him what had happened to Joseph and Célestine. How she finally decided to come to St. Clair.

 _Her story is a sad one, my brother, but please let your Harvard colleagues know she is doing fine in the circumstances. She is running a restaurant called the "Coeur de Lion". You might think what is a scientist doing running a restaurant. She lost her job at the university because they wanted women to stay home and raise their kids. The country is run by the Germans as you know, Vichy government under Pétain merely a puppet government. I feel certain after France is liberated, Katrine will be reinstated in her post._

 _Katrine is very beautiful! Beautiful and tiny and appealing, like Mama, but unbelievably resourceful, independent, strong and feisty and courageous and determined! It was a real battle of wills between us. She wanted to lead the fight in St. Clair but I told her, "I am the war you called to do the job for you!"_

 _After she acceded to my leadership, well, she's French! I have to keep my wits about me. I fear my wits will be surely tested as I get to know her better. But I am a soldier, you understand? When I leave St. Clair in a few days it will all be over, I'm afraid!_

 _We will rejoin the rest of my regiment and then head for Paris. Pray for our men, Edward. The war is not over and we cannot guarantee coming out of this alive._

 _Give my best to Mama and Henry and kiss little Evan for me._

 _Love_

 _Charles_

END CHAPTER TEN


	12. Chapter 12

A/N - Wondering what's happening to Célestine?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next few days Captain Charles Anson Miller and Katrine were inseparable. During the day, he occupied himself with official matters, clearing out the offices and preparing them for the original tenants before the town's occupation. He took down the Matisse and gazed long at the still life of oranges. He knew it was Katrine's Matisse because she had given him a description of it when she told him about it at her home.

He wanted to surprise her, for she believed her painting was lost, stolen from her home. He always thought that Lucien Blériot had stolen the painting and sold it to some German who in turn sold it to Schult. If Katrine had ever visited the top floor office of the garrison, she would have known about it. Not even Brigitte knew and she had visited the building a few times, according to Berry. Besides, considering the condescension with which Schult and Welthagen viewed the Frenchwomen, Katrine would hardly have been allowed in the inner sanctum of German decision making.

Miller prepared his men for their new orders, and had Davis sit with him to work out various assignments for their platoons. The men were raring to go, although a few of them had been identified by the medical staff as suffering from post traumatic stress. They had seen their comrades fall, had walked or run next to a partner and survived only because he was running on the right, the partner on the left. They had seen their friends blown up as they unsuspectingly stepped on a landmine or a drifting grenade.

Cruikshank had been with them when he was shot, bullet to the chest. These were young men who needed to be encouraged, to talk about what troubled them, to remain steadfast.

"They depend on us to fight for them, Captain, all those people in camps who have done nothing wrong."

"Yes, that is why we go on, Private Enslin."

Katrine busied herself with provisions for the _Coeur de Lion_. Now that the German presence was no more, all their provisions, which belonged to St. Clair anyway, had been shared among the stores, restaurants and bakeries. She consulted with her Resistance team about a new purpose, that of visiting door to door to deliver parcels of food. There was always something to do and they did it well. It was surprising that the men who had threatened to humiliate them in public now dived in to help any way they could. Gilles Rimbaud became her fiercest ally. Katrine was Katrine, Charlie thought. She had no animosity towards Rimbaud and the others.

So St. Clair settled down quietly in the aftermath of the battle.

At night, he dressed up and sat at the same table he'd sat at the first time. Katrine would sit by him and chat for a few minutes before she tended to her other patrons. Ian Baxter surprised one and all by playing a Spanish piece on his guitar. Charles had no clue what it was but it sounded beautiful, Baxter's fingers rolling over the strings reminding him of water droplets falling unendingly. Katrine later told him it was a piece by the Spanish composer, Albinez.

Wainwright sang, accompanied by Claude on the piano. He sounded like Caruso. His men were enjoying themselves, enjoying the calm before another storm that would hit them soon. He drank very little, the Shiraz wine fast becoming his favourite. One evening Davis came to his table when he was sitting alone.

"So...Katrine."

"Yes, Katrine. What of it?"

"There's a bet going that St. Clair won't be the end of Captain Miller and Katrine. I stand to win ten packs of cigarettes!"

"Davis, you would sell your soul for cigarettes?"

"Just the thought of winning, Captain!"

"Davis, it's my business, understand?"

"Oh, we understand fully."

"And what is that?"

"Why, Captain, no one stands guard outside Katrine's home. They reckon her guard is inside."

"Get out of here, Davis," he said, smiling as he looked where the others were sitting. They'd simply pulled two tables together so that eight of them could sit around it. Longman waved, Compton made faces and Linklater pointed to something on the third finger of his left hand. A little embarrassed that they were watching him, he turned to the food on the table.

He waited until after twelve when Katrine had finished her business, locking the doors and walking with her to her home. She usually looked stunning in her white attire, but at other times she wore a dress the colour of mustard, her tiny waist accentuating her slim figure. She looked like every actress he'd seen the very few times he'd been to the movies. In her home, they couldn't get out of their clothes quickly enough to feed hungrily on one another.

Tonight she smiled when she locked the door of the _Coeur de Lion_.

"What?" he asked as she hooked her arm through his as they walked to her home.

"I sometimes think of Joseph, what he'd say to me."

"Didn't you tell me that he told you to save yourself?"

"Yes," she said on a sigh. "He said that. He knew, I think."

"That you would one day get on with your life? That he'd say it is as it should be?"

Katrine stopped abruptly, turning in his embrace. In the light from the streetlamp, he saw her eyes shining.

"I did not think I could ever be happy again."

"I never thought I would find a soul mate."

Sighing again, she leaned into him, then turned to walk to her door.

She gazed at him, her eyes suddenly darting with delight.

"So, Captain Charles Anson Miller, would you care to make yet another memory with me?"

"I never say no to such a delicious invitation!"

"Let's get inside. I do believe we are observed."

Hours later Katrine lay on her back with Charles on his side bracing himself on his elbow. With his free hand he caressed her skin, pausing to drop a feather light kiss on her hair, her closed eyes, thrills going through him as she murmured his name softly.

Then he leaned in to kiss her again, her lips warm and pliant as they opened under his. A sting behind his closed eyelids caused him to give a sob. She broke the kiss, its heat and electrical impulses radiating from her, her warm breath fanning his face.

" _Charles_?"

"I feel like the world is spinning off its axis when I'm with you, when I touch you, when I kiss you. It...is disconcerting."

"You do not wish to be out of control?" she asked, intuitively understanding what he meant.

He brushed his lips against hers, this time a brief movement. Katrine's eyes widened.

"With you, it is impossible to remain in control!"

"You do not like the feeling?"

He bit his lip, frowning as some thought struck him.

"I lead one hundred and eighty men. Soon, perhaps, I will be leading a whole battalion of a thousand men. Their lives depend on good leadership. On the battlefield, I will always be responsible for them."

"I am a distraction, Charles Anson Miller?" she asked, smiling.

Charles's mouth twisted. He kissed her again, a deep kiss that elicited moans from them. Katrine pulled him down and shifted so that he lay over her. He flipped her atop him because his weight bore down heavily. Her breasts touched his chest, her legs straddled his. In an instant he was hard. Katrine moved, sliding down on his erection. Charles groaned as she began moving, thrusting into her. Minutes later they lay, sated and happy.

"That's better."

"Hmmm. You have not answered my question, Miller."

"Indeed, I have. I wanted to get up here and get dressed. There's a wedding to attend, or have you forgotten?"

"Oh!"

"Thank you, Mme du Pléssis!"

 **The Coeur de Lion - 30 July 1944**

It could not have been a better day than the second last day of July. At midday the heat was cloying and summer seemed in no hurry to depart. In the _Coeur de Lion,_ the tables and chairs were reshuffled. Two rows of chairs were separated by an aisle with the tables stacked against the walls. At the back of the restaurant was a double door which led to the kitchen and wine cellar.

Just in front of the counter was a small podium. There were decorations everywhere, a burst of colour with the iris blooms in vases on the windowsills. Two French flags hung from the ceiling.

Old Jean-Pierre and his wife Amélie Beaumont sat in the first row. When asked why he did not want to do the honours, his answer had been that his legs were not so strong to walk a bride up the aisle, that he wished another worthy person to take his place.

"I love you, Brigitte, but I am old. Your papa would understand, no?"

"Our papas are working in labour camps, _Grand-pére_! But I understand. I love you too. And I do know the right person to ask!"

"Who?"

"You shall see!"

So gradually the restaurant began filling with people - family, friends and US army soldiers who made up the rest of the congregation.

Solange stood on the right, singing "Cheek to cheek" softly, accompanied by Claude on the piano. Sgt. Ian Baxter sat close to Claude, strumming the strains of the song on his guitar.

At the podium, Monseigneur Girardieu shifted from one foot to the other. He wore no official raiment of the church, but a simple white cassock with a gold tassel. A cross hung round his neck. Katrine had entered in a blue dress. The skirt lapped at her calves, the bodice enhanced by shoulder pads.

Next to her stood Berry Beaumont, tugging at his shirt collar and looking uncomfortable in his black tuxedo. His sandy coloured hair was brushed back in a severe Rudolph Valentino hairstyle.

Robert Davis stood on his right, and Berry glanced at Davis with a look that seemed to say, "You are okay in my books now." Davis looked dashing in dress uniform, with the ever present red diamond on his left sleeve. The whistles from the soldiers' gallery had subsided after Davis had entered.

Katrine squeezed Berry's arm and he nodded. She raised her hand; a hush settled over the audience. Claude launched into a processional piece with Ian Baxter on guitar.

In the kitchen Captain Miller stood next to Brigitte. She was dressed in white lace, her hair adorned with a single stark iris. She looked a little nervous. A flash of his sister standing like this in her wedding gown, and him in dress uniform waiting for her to hook her arm through his. He blinked hard. Brides are brides, he decided, all nervous on their wedding day.

In formal dress uniform he looked extra military with an air of command about him. He touched Brigitte's arm, gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I am sorry I flew at you that first day, Captain."

"Please, it's Charles. And no, you had every right. Friends?"

"Yes!" she said, her face transforming as she smiled at him.

"Come. The music has started. Bertrand is waiting for you."

"I have loved him since I was two years old. I got...distracted, you understand?"

"Completely. It's life. Let's go!"

They walked down the little aisle while everyone stood at attention. The soldiers of his regiment saluted when he passed them. When they reached Berry, Charles handed her over, looking Bertrand Beaumont straight in the eye.

"If you hurt her, I shall kill you with my bare hands," he hissed softly.

Berry clicked his heels and saluted.

Then Charles took his place next to Katrine who smiled up at him as he nodded to her. He took her hand in his, not caring if his men were going to rib him from St. Clair all the way to Paris. Monseigneur Girardieu smiled at Berry and Brigitte, very happy that they had now finally decided to grow up and not ride their bicycles up the aisle of St. Agnes Cathedral.

And Solange sang

 _Hold me close and hold me fast  
The magic spell you cast  
This is la vie en rose_

Afterwards there was celebration and a lot of pictures taken.

 _5th Infantry Division_

 _10th regiment_

 _Company A_

 _July 30 1944_

 _Dearest Lynne_

 _We are leaving St. Clair tomorrow and heading towards Paris. Do you remember me telling you that I spent my summer vacation in this beautiful town? And I told you about Brigitte? Well, our company entered the town to liberate it from the Germans._

 _I met Brigitte. My dear, you are very much assured that it is all water under the bridge now. Maybe it was a good thing that I met her and there were absolutely no hard feelings. Lynne, Brigitte is pregnant, the father of her baby a German officer who was stationed here. We routed the Germans and he was among the dead, killed by a long bullet from one of our crack snipers._

 _Anyway, Brigitte got married today, to her cousin! I bet she doesn't have to change her last name. Bertrand - everybody calls him Berry - swore to high heaven Brigitte's baby is his own unborn son. I guess the way people can look beyond imperfections or unattractiveness perceived by the community, or their special circumstances, every woman is beautiful. Berry saw only Brigitte's beauty and is ready to raise their son to race in the Tour de France one day._

 _It was good for me to have met her and her family again. I love you so much, I ache every time I think of you and the boys. Yes, we all grow up and grow away from the past fancies that we always thought loomed very large in our lives. Time has a way of making us look differently through pretty much the same lens!_

 _My love to the boys!_

 _Yours forever_

 _Robert_

Katrine tried not to think too much about the regiment leaving in the morning. She gazed at the sleeping Charles next to her, snoring softly. He looked at peace, she thought. The lines of strain were gone, though she knew it was only temporary. When they entered the battlefield again, he would be the strong, focused, dedicated warrior leading his troops, yet bearing the strain of command.

Sadness would always be a part of her, and when Charles was gone, it would deepen. She had given her heart to him, but like him, she was a warrior of a different kind, the kind that could take disappointments and the consequences of loss and absorb them fully into her being. For had she not done so for her husband and her daughter?

What now of Charles? He had breezed into her life when she thought life was over for her. For so long she had tried to pack up her troubles and keep smiling. For so long she had to be strong, and every day that passed chipped away her hard won resolve to maintain in control of her life, her emotions, her pain.

Charles had come into her life and he gave her a new hope, things to look forward to, made her understand that her beloved child was never gone but with her in spirit, that it was okay to cry occasionally for what she had lost. There had been so many times that she had thought she would never wipe another tear again because she had already shed them all. He taught her that her heart was the wellspring of tears and that it never dried.

What now of Charles? He would breeze out of her life. Would she ever see him again? He had never mentioned that what they had could last, if not forever, then for a time at least. Why did she feel as if the bottom of the world he had created with her was about to fall out? They were intimate, had made love many times, sat at the table and enjoyed an early breakfast, a late night snack. They listened together to her precious recordings of the great composers. She showed him a book about European art because he was so interested. Was that enough? Could she hold him to her and dream an impossible dream?

Sighing, she allowed the tears that welled in her eyes to roll down her cheek. He stirred when she snuggled closer, sleepily lifting his arm to hold her to him. She lay awake until her eyes began to droop and sleep finally overtook her.

When she woke in the morning, it was with a feeling of dread. Charles had already left her home. Slipping on her gown and slippers she walked to the lounge, hoping against hope to see him. No one was there, so she made her way to the kitchen where she busied herself with breakfast. She was shocked to see it was already past eight. She had not woken when Charles left.

The dread persisted. She heard a knock on her door and someone stepping inside. Her heart raced suddenly. Only Charlie tapped twice before entering. She rushed to the lounge, breathless with anticipation.

Charles Miller stood inside the door. This time he was in battle dress complete with helmet under one arm and rifle over the other. Balanced against his leg was a rectangular object wrapped in brown paper.

"Good morning, Katrine," he said, his face sombre.

"Good morning. I - I was afraid you would not come - "

"I had to see you before I left. Firstly, for this..." Charles picked up the gift and handed it to her.

She gazed at him, then at the object, frowning.

"Open it, please," he said.

She removed the brown wrapping carefully. She'd sensed it was a painting. Had she not wrapped dozens of art works half a lifetime ago and hid them in underground bunkers? Always treat the paintings carefully.

Then she gasped. Her tears spilled unceremoniously from her eyes as she stared at the painting. An old conversation from half a lifetime ago came rushing to her.

 _"Joseph! I found the Matisse!"_

He had been in Berlin and she in Paris. Joseph had been so happy for her, so happy. They were her days of joy and sunshine - Joseph, Célestine and Katrine. She heard Charles's voice from a great distance.

"A Matisse which I found hanging in the main office of the German Headquarters. It was in the possession of Kommandant Jürgen Schult. He must have acquired it in Paris on his way to St. Clair. I have a theory that Lucien Blériot stole the painting and sold it to him."

"My Matisse..."

"Yes, still life with oranges. When I saw it hanging there, I knew that it was the one you described to me. You are currently its rightful owner and I thought you should have it."

"You waited until now?" she asked with a trembling in her voice, her eyes still brimming with tears.

"I wanted to surprise you. To let you know that there are still things in life that come back to us, things that are worth fighting for. It's sentimental. It's crazy, I know!"

She placed the Matisse carefully on the table and rushed to hug him tightly. His arms wound convulsively around her as he buried his face in her hair. They stood holding each other, as if both were in danger of drowning. She felt his lips pressing into her hair, her forehead, her lips when she lifted her face to look at him.

Charles blinked several times, then released her. He flipped his helmet and retrieved a letter from its inside band.

"We leave in an hour. Could you please read it after we have left St. Clair?"

Katrine could only nod as she took the letter from him. One last, pleading look she gave him. Then Captain Charles Anson Miller clicked his heels and saluted. A moment later he was gone.

Katrine looked around her. There was the last record he was playing on the small table next to the phonograph. On the mantelpiece where once a photo of her and Célestine stood was a sketch Charles had made, of eagles in flight.

"I'm not very good at this. Edward is really good."

"It's lovely because you made it for me."

"One day, Katrine, you will get back those things you were searching for..."

She'd smiled at his enigmatic words. Now she had gotten her Matisse back. Carefully she placed the painting on the table, deciding to dress first. She had an hour to get ready to say a final goodbye to Charles and the troops, to write a letter...

 **St. Clair - July 31 1944 town square**

Everyone in the town came to say goodbye to the troops who had come to St. Clair and freed her from the Oppressor. The Germans were all gone now, most of them buried in mass graves outside the town's graveyard. Those who had surrendered were taken prisoner and marched off to Vidouville where a camp had been set up. C Company of the 10th regiment sent a platoon to escort the prisoners.

There had been great relief and merriment following the liberation of the town. But once the euphoria had died down, men of the town had assumed cloaks of righteous indignation and sought to shave the heads of women who had slept with the enemy. They were found out, by none other than the captain of the company of soldiers when he straight out accused them of cowardice. One such man left his son in the line of fire while he ran to save his own skin first. Their spineless act was mainly to conceal their own lack of involvement in the struggle for liberation.

First were the three jeeps followed by several trucks. Behind the trucks were the gun carriages and one tank. Then followed the emergency medical units as well as a vehicle carrying all official documents and reports of the events in St. Clair, including identification tags of the Germans who had died.

Eugene Linklater stood with Sandrine, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. He had already kissed her inside her home and said goodbye to her there. They made promises that they'd write each other and keep in touch.

Brigitte and Berry stood with their grandparents.

"I am very sorry to see them go, Brigitte," said Berry.

"Nonsense. You're scared the captain will beat the snot out of you."

"That was a threat. You know that!"

"Francis Longman," she persisted, "told me Captain Miller broke a German's neck with his bare hands. They could hear his neck breaking from way up on a hill."

" _Mon Dieu_! I swear I will never, never hurt you, Brigitte!"

"That is good," _Grand-mére_ said. "I raised you to take care of her, Bertrand!"

"I am outnumbered!" Berry complained.

"Good."

"Until my son is born!"

At which Brigitte and _Grand-mére_ decided not to tempt Berry again.

Robert Davis had walked up to Gilles Rimbaud and faced off with the Frenchman. "More than anything, Rimbaud, women desire respect."

Rimbaud smiled, still looking chastened by being found out as a coward. "I have learned my lesson, Lieutenant."

"Take good care of that boy of yours!"

"I will."

Lamine stood next to Solange. They too, were sad to see the Americans leave. They'd had a great time with entertainment, with men who were tenors and played instruments. Of course, the American dollars that filled the coffers of the _Coeur de Lion_ were very much appreciated. Now it would be back to normal and business as usual. They stood arm in arm, all thoughts of what happened between her and some Germans behind the St. Agnes Cathedral forgotten. Lamine simply told her, "We begin anew, Solange. All else must be the past."

He was very concerned though, for his friend Katrine. Katrine had changed, and all because of Captain Miller. They had been inseparable, with Miller escorting Katrine home and staying over. He never slept in their barracks. That was the word that came from the men who did the night shift in front of the other women's homes.

In Paris, Katrine had been happy. She was resourceful, self-reliant, strong and fey at the same time. He had loved that Katrine who sometimes surprised Joseph by kissing him when he walked past her. She had little reserve when it came to expressing her love for him. He'd seen them once in the kitchen standing in each other's arms - she tiny and he of average height, yet still towering over her. And they were kissing. He had felt his own heart weaken at the sight of such devotion and had prayed fervently that God grace him with just such a love.

Yet, during the last ten days that she had been in Captain Miller's company, Katrine was a different woman. He, Lamine, had only recently experienced the good fortune of being in love. Now he could easily see that there could be a different kind of love. Yes, Katrine was in love again. And this time he thought Captain Miller was mostly like some caged animal that kept his aggression under control. This love... Lamine shook his head. Katrine's eyes betrayed her whenever Miller came into view or when someone mentioned his name. Then a dark fire would lurk in her eyes, a fire that merged with a tenderness he had not ever seen before, not even with Joseph. He could swear on ten bibles that she never looked at Joseph Blumenthal that way.

Captain Miller's coal black eyes smouldered most of the time he was with Katrine. Yet Lamine thought that the fire that resided in Miller was also tempered with fear - fear of losing control, of being completely under Katrine's spell. He foresaw nothing but pain again for Katrine.

Now they all waved as the first vehicles began moving slowly down the Rue Saint Agnes. The townsfolk launched into the national anthem, singing until the last vehicle passed them. Finally the square began to empty, the people walking slowly back home to perform their daily tasks, buy bread, fight over wine, make love, have babies, bury the oldest inhabitant.

Life in St. Clair was back to normal.

Katrine stood by the fountain when everyone had gone. She watched the convoy move down Rue Saint Agnes and never took her eyes off them. She watched as they continued down the long road, past the cathedral, past the old munitions building. Like a moving picture, the procession became smaller and smaller as they moved further and further away. Still Katrine looked, unable to take her eyes off them.

Even when they became only a tiny dot on the horizon, she still looked.

 _5th Infantry Division_

 _10th regiment_

 _Company A_

 _July 31 1944_

 _Dearest Katrine_

 _I have never been_ _one for goodbyes. It seems that every time I say goodbye, something bad happens when I return. But I couldn't leave without at least letting you know that our last meeting meant the world to me, that being with you has meant the world to me._

 _I gave you something that I knew you treasured very much. It filled me with so much joy to see how you reacted. I knew then that I had done the right thing. I am not that good with art works. I am a military strategist, but learning about your painting gave me a little insight into the work you have done in the Resistance in the preservation of art works._

 _We are heading to Paris,_ _as you know. You might think, so what about our time together in St. Clair? You might wonder whether my time with you was worth something. Let me assure you it was the best. We did not have a very auspicious start, because I have_ _not before_ _been confronted by a woman as strong and as assertive as you. You are the best thing in my life. We had only ten days, yet I feel I am lost without you. It is not a feeling I am comfortable with, you know?_

 _My life has been dark. I have suffered loss, and so have you. The gods must have decided to throw two such individuals together to share what pain they have. Knowing you, being able to tell you things I have never told a living soul has been and is very liberating, although I must admit that it is a slow journey for me, Katrine. I pray that you will be patient with me. The nature of my work is such that I cannot allow emotions to get in the way of performing my task to the fullest measure, to have so many young men - boys, really -_ _depending on me for their safety, for their lives. On the battlefield I become every general and warrior who has fought for freedom and I must of necessity, put command and duty before any personal considerations._

 _It is not easy for me to be as open as you are, so ready to share your deepest emotions with me and entrusting me with them. I want to talk to_ _you of things_ _because I know I can entrust them to you. If they come piecemeal, then do not despair because there will be more coming._

 _My heart, I can tell you now, dearest, is forever tied to you. I am in love with you. I worship you with the man that is in me, and not the young boy in the flush of first love. That is what I want to give you - all of me._

 _But dearest, there is not a young man or woman in the theatres of this war not aware that love and promises depend on whether a beloved will survive, yet they all go into their relationships with the impetuosity of the very young. I know that wherever I find myself in the heat of battle, thoughts of you will surely keep me going._

 _Please write to me as often as the bullets, the grenades, anti-aircraft guns and bombs will allow us. I will do the same._

 _All my love_

 _Captain Charles Anson Miller_

Katrine folded the letter neatly and placed it back in its envelope. Then she tied a red ribbon around it and carefully placed it in her dresser drawer. Her cheeks were stained with tears. It was the fourth time she had read the letter and every time she was unable to stop crying.

The first time she had read it, had been in the hour after she had seen the last speck of the US army convoy disappear down the Rue Saint Agnes. She had sat in her comfy chair - the one Charles liked so much when he listened to her recordings - and remained staring at the opposite wall for a long, long time. The room was filled with the echoes of his presence in her home.

Charles loved her. He loved her like she loved him.

 _I love him_

Her heart sang unabated from that very moment. If she had been disappointed that he hadn't said goodbye to her personally, then his words in the letter all but washed away her distress. He took her body and worshipped it, as she had worshipped his. He had kissed every inch of her skin, the tingling of his touch so unrelenting, she thought she'd expire. One night she'd lain there, her eyes closed. He called her name and her eyes flew open. Then he told her that she had fainted briefly because the pleasure had been unbearable. Once it happened to him too, and she had seen him so vulnerable, she knew then that he had given her a precious gift of himself, that she would treasure his vulnerability forever.

Katrine glanced at the mantelpiece then got up and stood in front of the picture of Joseph with his smiling eyes and curly top. She had loved Joseph; she'd believed that there could be no other in her life. They were a unit, a team that raised a beautiful little girl. So much had happened since they'd died. So much. And Joseph seemed to wink at her from the picture.

"You were always such a kind man, Joseph. Kind and just. You believed in fairness and the goodness of men. Charles is such a man. I love him."

It seemed Joseph's mouth curved into a smile she remembered, the indulgent smile of loving anything that Katrine loved.

"My heart asks for nothing more, Joseph, than knowing you are okay with my newfound joy. See? Your smile continues. Once, many years ago, you told me that if anything happened to you, that I should continue with my life and find new happiness because life does not stand still. You would feel awful if I couldn't move forward."

It seemed Joseph nodded. His last words, "Save yourself" as he and Célestine were torn from her, did not hurt so much anymore. In the first months, she couldn't bear to look at their pictures. The pain had remained as constant, throbbing pulses that kept her awake at night. Now they had dimmed, though not gone. Charles assured her the pain was still there but it no longer overpowered her.

"You were always so generous. You would have wanted me to be happy, wouldn't you? Memories of you and Célestine will always, always, be a part of me."

It seemed Joseph nodded again, saying, "Katrine, for the love of God, get on with your life! Charles is the right man who will stay by your side forever."

Her tears were not far from her, but she believed that Joseph had blessed her. Now she could take out the letter whenever she missed Charles too much.

By now they were in Paris, fighting the war there.

 **On the road to Paris - July 31 1944**

"Say, Beanpole, did you see how Captain Miller and that lady fighter couldn't take their eyes off each other?"

Linklater blew some smoke, waiting for Beanpole Compton to answer.

"He goddam near stripped her goddam dress off her in the middle of the goddam town square!"

"They say he slept with her every night. Is that true?"

"He slept in her goddam house, dumbass! Which didn't mean he slept in her bed!" Compton said, feeling he had to defend his boss.

"Have you looked at Mme Katrine du Pléssis?" Linklater asked. "She'd give all them Hollywood actresses a run for their money. Better looking than all of them!"

"What's your point, Link?"

"Who could resist such a beauty in her bedroom?"

"Boy, I'd have liked to be a goddam fly on that goddam wall!" Compton crowed. He laughed so loud that Baxter slapped his helmet.

"Don't let the boss hear you. You know you have a very thin neck!"

"Oh, hell!" Link cried out. "I'd like to see Cappy wring your neck, Compton! You owe him three lives!"

"Knock it off, guys. Leave the man alone," one of the other privates said. "It's his private life you're talking about."

"I guess if you get to be captain, you close like a clam, right?"

"Right. Now leave him alone."

"Say, Eugene, you gonna miss Sandrine? Seems like she took a shine to you!"

"I like her, but war is war, right? You heard the captain!"

"You mean you just gonna forget about her? You like her, man!" Compton kept on.

"We're going to write."

Linklater's words had Compton laugh so loud that heads popped up from the truck behind them.

"Hey, what's up there, guys?" someone asked.

"Link here is gonna write letters to his lady love. Tell him - "

The next moment Compton looked down the barrel of Linklater's rifle.

"One more word from you..."

"Okay! Okay!"

In the second jeep driven by Elsevier, Lieutenant Robert Davis sat next to Captain Miller. Miller had not said a single word since they left St. Clair. It had Davis worried, not that his captain was an overly talkative person anyway. But he knew Miller well. Miller had left something in St. Clair that had him compressing his lips like a clam.

"I'm glad I got to see Brigitte again."

Silence. The convoy moved at a brisk pace, the sun beating down on them. Miller kept looking straight ahead.

"We both acknowledged that we were young and foolish."

Davis spoke softly, knowing how Elsevier's ears could prick to hear anything juicy he might pass on to his comrades. Still there was no reaction from Miller.

"Lovely day, isn't it?"

"A good day to die."

Davis shook his head mentally. Not quite what he expected as a response, but it pretty much told him to shut up and leave Miller alone.

Everyone - their own men as well as Katrine's close friends - knew of the attraction between Katrine and Captain Miller. He'd had to shut up a few of the men who got uncommonly romantic and wanted to see a fairytale with a happy ending.

He really was glad that he had seen Brigitte. He had come through his baptism of fire ever since he knew they'd be coming to St. Clair. He had loved Brigitte once, a long time ago, when they were both young and hot-headed. It was something that tainted his relationship with Lynne the first year he had met her. He'd always believed that he was still in love with Brigitte, and when he met Lynne, told her about the Frenchwoman who had stolen his heart.

But with time and patience on Lynne's part, he gradually began to fall for her. She had cried the day he told her that he loved her, that there was no other woman for him. Now he was glad, because seeing Brigitte again after so many years put what they had in perspective. He could look at Brigitte now and not feel his heart racing, becoming breathless at the sight of her.

All he wanted to do now was love Lynne and the boys 'til the end of his days. When the war was over, he'd go back to university to study engineering design. He was not finished with drawing rockets and supersonic jet planes.

Sighing, he sat back and closed his eyes, his thoughts now on Paris, rejoining the other regiments of their division and hopefully meet General George S. Patton.

He was in no mood to talk since they'd left St. Clair. Davis wanting to strike up a conversation irritated him. He wanted to dwell in his own thoughts for a while and think of Katrine, think of things.

Voices and bright laughter sprang up from the trucks. That didn't deter him much. It was having to respond to questions, delving in other people's issues that he shrank from. Did great generals of history have the same problem? Did they wish they could find a place where they could be alone and ponder on personal things such as family, love, marriage?

Katrine's eyes haunted him. The last time he looked at her he was unable to say goodbye. Those words stuck in his throat, words he associated with loss, with heartache, with unbridled anger. What would happen to them after yet another goodbye from him? Would he die, or would she be lost to him forever through death?

It had always been so easy with his family, with Lucy. Whenever he was home on a weekend pass or a month long vacation, those words slipped carelessly from his tongue, without any conscious thought of what would happen in the hereafter. Now, with Katrine, everything changed and it scared him.

Words that demanded an emotional vocal expression were difficult to utter. It felt like he was laying bare his soul in the presence of an audience. He couldn't tell her what he wanted to tell her, what lay in his heart. So once again he penned his thoughts in a letter.

Katrine touched his deepest being. He had known her only ten days but he knew without a shred of doubt that he would never be whole without her. Separated from her meant something would always be missing, a vacuum created that demanded to be filled with the memories, the presence, the sheer pleasure of physical touching. How would he live without her?

He loved her.

It was as simple as that. How, then, could he go forward from here? Would their love be tested by the war raging around them?

Sighing, he sat back and raised his face to the sun, now almost high for midday, keeping his eyes closed. Davis had tried conversation and he'd rebuffed his second-in-command. He sat up again.

"We're both leaving things behind, Davis. Yours is pretty much wrapped up. Seeing your first love made you realise what treasure you have waiting at home."

"Indeed, Captain." Davis glanced him at, relieved that Miller was talking again. "Seeing Brigitte again was cathartic, I guess. I realise there is nothing left anymore of what was 'us'. I miss Lynne and the boys." There was a short pause. "What about you?"

"Mine...is unfolding, I guess. Katrine has suffered much. Her husband and little girl were killed before they could be transported to the concentration camps."

"She has you now."

Miller looked Davis in the eyes. "I guess that pretty much sums it up."

"I hope everything works out for you, Captain. It will not be easy from here onwards."

"No. We fight in Paris and then go where the Third Army assigns us."

The conversation dried up, both looking straight ahead. Soon they would see the outskirts of the city. Paris beckoned, a Paris with its historical buildings, its winding Seine River, its Arc de Triomphe, its Eiffel Tower, a Paris asking the Allied Powers to deliver it from the devil.

Miller pulled a map from his duffel. The next hour he spent studying the map, using a pen to circle points here and there, identify key areas Allied Intelligence had sent him while in St. Clair. They'd be joining the Fourth Armoured Infantry Division, with aerial assistance and their full arsenal of artillery at their disposal.

Once Paris fell, France would be free.

 **Boston, Massachusetts - September 1944**

Edward Aaron Miller stared at the letter he'd just read. Lucy stood near the fireplace, a squirming Winonah in her arms.

"Well, what does he say?" she asked.

"He found Katrine du Pléssis, but not in Paris as we all thought. Her husband and daughter were killed by the Germans who transported them to a concentration camp."

Lucy gave a little cry of alarm. "Oh, I am so sorry, Edward! It was not what you had anticipated, was it?"

"No. We simply assumed they were together. But she's alone now, living and running a restaurant in a little town called St. Clair. Charlie and his troops liberated that town, Lucy!"

"He's a great warrior. His men trust him."

Edward folded the letter carefully. "I have to tell Professor Armitage about this. He was the one who wanted to take care of Katrine's little girl."

"It must have been so hard on her, to lose her husband and child in that way."

Instead of answering Lucy, Edward opened the letter again and began reading a paragraph.

 _Katrine is very beautiful! Beautiful and tiny and appealing, like Mama, but unbelievably resourceful, independent, strong and feisty and courageous and determined! It was a real battle of wills between us. She wanted to lead the fight in St. Clair but I told her, "I am the war you called to do the job for you!"_

 _After she acceded to my leadership, well, she's French! I have to keep my wits about me. I fear my wits will be surely tested as I get to know her better. But I am a soldier, you understand? When I leave St. Clair in a few days it will all be over, I'm afraid!_

"What do you think, Lucy?" Edward asked. He sat down when his legs became tired.

"He's in love with her," she answered, her eyes wide with astonishment. "He loves Katrine!"

"Yes, that's what I thought too. Katrine must mean the world to him."

"What will happen to them now?"

"That, my dear, only God knows."

END CHAPTER ELEVEN


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER TWELVE

 **The liberation of Paris,** **August 1944**

Weeks after, Charles Miller remembered the Parade of the Free French Army on 25 August 1944.

He had stood in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées watching the procession. The noise was thunderous as engines roared above the din of screaming people waving thousands of tricolors that swayed in the light afternoon breeze.

Truck after truck followed by gun carriages, tanks with long cannon and marching soldiers filled the avenue in a mile long procession. Tens of thousands of people - citizens of Paris, visitors to the city, the American and British soldiers who had formed a formidable offensive against the Germans - had come to witness the celebration of the liberation of France. Once Paris fell, with the exception of a few towns, it was all over for the Oppressor. Katrine had been right when she'd told him that while France's government had surrendered to the Germans, her people never did. They'd come to the Champs-Élysées to rejoice in the overthrowing of the shackles that had bound them to an ideology in direct opposition to the very ideals of France - liberty, equality, fraternity.

Charles had glanced down the avenue, his eyes fixed on a building in the distance. Like a watchful angel, the magnificent _Arc de Triomphe_ rose in the boulevard. A historic landmark he had dreamed of visiting one day, though never through the circumstance of war. This was Paris, liberated from the Germans. While many buildings were destroyed, the triumphal arch remained untouched. It had been built as a monument to France's greatest military moments in history. It honoured all who had fought with distinction and valour and died heroically during its Revolution and the Napoleonic wars.

Captain Miller had thought how appropriate it was that the names of their victories and their noble generals had been inscribed on the inner and outer walls of the _Arc de Triomphe_. The march had marked the celebration of the liberation of France as General Charles de Gaulle assumed leadership of the new provisional government. Would De Gaulle's name be inscribed on the walls of the _Arc de Triomphe_? he'd wondered. Would the Battle for Paris be the latest victory inscribed there as well?

The noise of the procession and the screaming populace was deafening. A few of his men had stood next to him, waving as the trucks and soldiers passed them. It was a glorious day, the bright sunshine infecting the people with boisterous laughter, as they hugged and kissed each other in the streets. He'd glanced at Linklater and Compton. They had been unusually quiet while the rest of his platoon had joined in the hilarity that marked the jubilation in the city. He hadn't felt like rejoicing because he'd lost a good many men, his company reduced to almost two thirds. He had himself been injured. As if that thought reminded him of the bullet wound, he'd touched his right arm gingerly where a dressing covered his stitched wound.

Charlie had thought how quickly the people of Paris had settled into peace, their faces filled with relief, their expressions without the caution he knew they'd had to exercise whenever they passed Germans in the streets, restaurants, on bridges or public buildings. Paris had celebrated while the 4th Infantry Division had travelled further east to liberate the last of the French cities and towns. It was the events that followed that had made him reconsider that what they witnessed was not one of France's finest moments.

Free France indeed. Joyous celebration that threatened to overflow into the river Seine.

It had not been like that weeks ago.

Paris bleeding, Paris restored, Paris turning its anger away from the pain of Oppression to another objective.

The Allied forces were powerless to prevent what happened after the liberation.

 **US offensives 19 - 25 July - Paris 1944**

"Fire!" he shouted as they ran down one of the streets where Germans poured through alleyways, firing as they saw American soldiers bearing down on them. Charlie ran into a doorway, waving with his hand to Linklater and Compton to do the same on the opposite side of the street. Then they calmly lined up their scopes, aiming at the first Germans whose heads peeped round a corner. While they covered the first burst, his men ran and fired at will. Then one of them went down.

"Cover me!" Charlie shouted at Linklater. Then he dived into the line of fire to drag the fallen comrade into a doorway. It was Baxter, radioman and guitarist. Blood spurted from a wound in his chest.

"Captain..."

Baxter tried to breathe. His eyes rolled and he shuddered violently.

"Stay with me, Baxter. Stay with me!" he cried. Around him firing continued.

"Captain...it was...an honour...serving...with you..."

"Goddammit, man, fight! Don't - you - go - dying - on - me!"

But somewhere in his heart, Miller knew Baxter was not going to make it. The sergeant's eyes began to glaze, the shudders subsiding until the infantryman became still, staring with dead eyes at Miller. With an agonised cry, Miller hauled the soldier into his arms and rocked for a few moments, feeling his eyes sting with tears. Then he gently lay Baxter down. The litter bearers would arrive soon to prepare the body for burial and collect the valuables Baxter carried on his person. But first Miller bent again to close Baxter's eyes. He gave a quiet sob before rushing up, firing his rifle as he ran, hitting every German who came within his angered view.

"Sons-of-bitches!"

"Captain! Watch out!" Compton shouted as three Germans suddenly popped out from behind a thick hedge.

Miller had seen them already and fired three quick shots in succession before the soldiers had time to lift their rifles. Planes overhead dropped bombs, filling the hot summer sky with smoke that mushroomed above the buildings. Allied tanks grunted heavily as they rolled down the road. Miller waved again to his men to brace themselves against the walls of the buildings as the first tank fired at its target - a low grumbling German panzer. A loud boom! The panzer lifted half off the ground. Just then the hatch opened, the Germans trying to get out of the burning vehicle. Miller saw his chance, took a grenade and pulled the pin, tossing the live fire directly into the cabin of the panzer.

So they fought their way down the road, until they reached a small square where a group of Germans were holding off insistent and determined firing from platoon B, Davis's men. Suddenly another group of soldiers brought up the rear of the enemy fire. This time Miller screamed at his men to fire, closing in as they ran towards the Krauts. He saw three or four of his men go down, inciting him further as he reached the first German soldier, grabbing him in a vice grip round his neck, twisting it so violently that the soldier was dead by the time he hit the ground. Miller had already unsheathed his dagger as he ran towards the next foot soldier. Before the soldier could fire, Miller lunged for him and in one swift movement slashed his throat.

He noticed out of the corner of his eye his men engaged in hand-to-hand combat, killing the enemy with ease.

By now only a few Germans were left in that part of the road, while the Allied tank had rolled further to sow destruction in other roads where the enemy lurked. The few Germans left dropped their weapons when they realised they were outnumbered, their comrades killed like flies. They surrendered, their hands high above their heads.

"Hold your fire!" he shouted at his soldiers when he saw that the Germans had capitulated. His men deftly disarmed all of them. They knew the protocols with regard to the prisoners of war. During this short lull in the immediate fighting, Miller took his chance and ran back to where four of his men had fallen.

He'd already lost Ian Baxter earlier. He saw Davis bending near one of them. The others had been pulled out of the road and were lying on the sidewalk.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Davis said as he shook his head. "Wainwright's dead, sir. So are Ellington, Masters and Higgins."

Miller nodded, feeling the sting in his eyes again. They were brave fighters, his best men of the 10th regiment. Wainwright would have been the next Caruso. The litter bearers were arriving now that the area had been secured by the Allied forces. He bent low next to the bodies of the four men and closed his eyes.

 _God, be with their families..._

Ellington, like Davis, was married with two kids.

Captain Miller acknowledged the litter bearers as they began lifting the bodies of his soldiers. There was nothing they could do for the fallen now except to honour them with the final dignity of a burial.

"We have to go."

He and Davis ran down the road to join the rest of their men. Further and further they advanced towards the Seine where heavy fighting occurred between the Free French Army and the German battalions who seemed to pour into the streets in their hundreds.

"This way!" he ordered as Longman, Linklater and Compton joined them. Miller had seen the crossing where Germans were holding off the Allied Forces. Men from his division's 2nd battalion were trying to capture the bridge and secure the bridgehead. His company were spread out with only his trusted snipers following him. They ran towards the embankment, a solid wall a few feet high, behind which they could crouch and carefully take aim.

"Take out any Kraut whose face you see on the opposite bank. He just peeps, you fire! Longman and Davis, you aim for those on the left flank of the bank. Compton and I will target the right and anything moving in the middle!"

"Yes, Captain!" they chorused.

He lined up his scope. Germans rushed forward from the other side, falling back as bullets hit them. He'd drilled his men to aim for those the other fighters wouldn't be able to see. They posed the greatest danger.

 _They have snipers, we have better snipers..._

"Now!"

He fired shot after shot as an enemy face appeared in his scope. Next to him Compton was doing the same. They watched the Germans fall, the men of the 10th advancing inch by inch across the bridge, shooting their way through the barricades erected by the Krauts. Fierce hand-to-hand combat ensued. Miller indicated his team should join the rest of the regiment. Quickly they ran to the bridge, firing at targets on the other side. Now the French Army could advance once the bridgehead had been cleared.

"Captain," Compton shouted, "the Germans are retreating!"

"We still need to push ahead!"

Just as they reached the opposite bank, Miller looked back to see the advancing French troops. Compton was behind him. When he turned to face the retreating Germans again, Compton yelled.

"Captain! Captain! Watch out!"

He saw the German too late. Just as he turned, a bullet hit him, flinging him back at least two paces. A second shot struck his helmet before skidding off, causing a blinding flash. Miller gave a cry of alarm as his right upper arm went suddenly lame, his rifle dropping uselessly from his hand. Compton fired at the same time and killed the German. Blood began flowing from the wound. When Davis reached him, he used his free arm and grabbed the lieutenant's jacket front.

"Carry on, Davis! It's only a flesh wound. Bullet went right through, missed the bone by maybe half an inch. I'll survive."

"But, Captain," Longman now joined in while Compton covered them, firing whenever he saw the familiar helmet of the German soldiers, "you are injured. A bullet ricocheted off your helmet, for heaven's sake! We cannot leave you here!"

"You go on, you hear me? That's an order!"

Three concerned faces stared at him. Davis hesitated only a moment, then he pulled the other two up, much to Compton's consternation.

"Captain!"

"Go! Go!"

"Yes, sir, Captain, sir!" they chorused, saluting as they ran off in the direction of the fighting that seemed to have died down somewhat.

Miller groaned as the pain lanced through his arm in earnest. He felt like he had been shot in the head too, knowing that the bullet had bounced off his helmet. He got up slowly and slung his rifle over his shoulder, then retraced his steps across the bridge, heading for the medical tents. He clutched his injured arm to try and stop the flow of blood. A lancing pain slashed through his head. He felt dizzy but managed to keep his eyes open. If any German appeared suddenly in front of him, he'd break the man's neck, the pain in his arm be damned. So he trudged along, the medics suddenly very far away. He kept moving, down the same road they'd come up where four of his men had died. In the distance, on what looked like an open field, he saw the Red Cross trucks. Miller groaned, unable to understand how he could have so much pain or have lost so much blood. It was streaming over the fingers that clutched the injured arm.

When he was about fifty yards away, he stood still, the pain excruciating, his head about to burst open, but he grit his teeth. He saw a medic run towards him. His heart thudded as he stumbled drunkenly forward and sank to his knees. Then he keeled over, lost in the mists of oblivion.

He dreamed of Katrine, her face merging into the clouds that billowed overhead. She smiled at him, then seemed to tell him something. He tried to discern the formation of words from her lips _. "Did you read my letter?"_ He frowned heavily, trying to remember something, like a hand held out to him with a white object. He shook his head, unable to connect her question to a letter he was supposed to have read. He gasped for breath when her expression changed to sorrow. _No...no...please do not be sad. I never wish to hurt you..._ He tried to think of a letter, burrowing in his memory for a sign, any trigger that might point to an answer.

Maybe he wasn't dreaming, then. He was asleep, and in his sleep-wake state the voice of Katrine was real. He frowned, the thinking exhausting him. It hurt to dig deeper into his consciousness but he persevered. It would help him to wake up.

Then, like an apparition, a soldier appeared in front of him. Where were they standing? Think. Think! Bright sunshine, soldiers standing around, talking, laughing. The road between St. Clair and Paris? A short stop for the soldiers to relieve themselves, to take refreshments. Yes, that was it!

The soldier looked nervous, scared. Charles remembered he was riding the very last gun carriage out of St. Clair.

"Captain?"

He'd looked at the fresh-faced young private and frowned.

"What is it, Riley?" The soldier looked very uneasy.

Riley proffered a white envelope with a shaking hand, then stepped back quickly and saluted the moment he took it from the soldier.

"Who - ?" he started.

Riley seemed to have found his voice.

"Mme Du Pléssis gave it to me, Captain. She was the last person standing near the fountain when we left. She asked me to give it to you once we travelled a good distance from St. Clair. You have to read it when you reach Paris..." Then Riley dissolved into the clouds that carried Katrine's face.

Charlie looked at the writing on the envelope. Beautiful cursive strokes with long sweeps on the -m- in his last name.

"Katrine..." he cried her name in his sleep-wake state. He'd put the letter along with the others between the pages of _Caesar's Gallic Wars_.

Only then he realised he'd never read her letter. He tried to touch his left top pocket, feeling for his little book. He must read her letter. Must read...

"Captain..."

A voice, strong, imposing. He struggled to open his eyes, to look at the owner of the commanding voice.

"Open your eyes, Captain Miller. You've slept long enough!"

Miller's eyes flew open suddenly. An officer was seated on a camp chair, looking down at him. Charlie kept staring, his heart skipping a beat.

A helmet with three stars. A riding crop pressed against his neck. A face that looked stern, though the eyes held something like...admiration? Charlie raised himself, groaning as he tried to sit up on the cot. Finally he managed to stand. The officer also stood up. Charlie recognised him instantly. He'd been following every single campaign of this man since his Academy days, had studied his Africa Campaign at length, had dreamt of being part of the superlative Third Army.

"General Patton, sir!"

Charlie saluted with his left hand, his right arm encumbered by bandages and a sling.

"That's okay, son. We are war animals, you and I. "

Charlie swallowed with difficulty. "Sir, it is an honour to serve with you."

"That is why I am here, Captain. You have received a commendation. What you have done in St. Clair and here, securing the bridgehead for the French armed forces and the 5th Infantry to advance into enemy territory, is one hundred percent praiseworthy. We have saved France, but don't let the goddam French hear you say that!"

Charlie suppressed the urge to smile. He knew the US Armed Forces and the British 1st Infantry Division would have secured all strategic areas, so the French Forces could basically just do mop up operations.

"General, I - thank you."

"The medics are thinking of sending you home. Detroit, is that it? Beautiful lake there...St. Clair."

"No!"

"Captain, a bullet bounced off your helmet. You suffered a concussion. You were unconscious for two days. Your arm needs to heal. Your body is pockmarked with the scars of old bullet wounds. Don't you - "

Charlie felt so aggrieved that he straightened up, realising belatedly he was without his boots. He saluted again.

"Captain Charles Miller, reporting for duty, sir!"

The general's eyes focused on him in a piercing, contemplative gaze. Slowly his face broke into a smile.

"That's what I like about my soldiers, Captain! Never give up! I'm proud to have the Red Diamonds in my army. Now, you go and kill those sons-of-bitches, Miller, when your arm has healed. Report for duty on September 7. My aide will give you the coordinates."

"Thank you, sir!" Charlie said, glad he wasn't going home.

"Miller..."

"Yes, sir?"

General Patton smiled, tapped Charlie on the shoulder with his riding crop.

"You remind me of me!"

 _St. Clair_

 _31 July 1944_

 _Dear Charles_

 _I was too afraid, I think, to speak to you of my feelings. When you left, I felt alone again. You did not say goodbye_ _to me and all I could hope as a goodbye was your salute. You told me to read your letter only after you had left St. Clair, and while writing this one, I am still in the dark as to the content of it._

 _I wanted to tell you so badly of my feelings for you. Yet I know that you have always been truthful about the risks of being in the army, being on active service. You fear you will not make it through this war. I tell you once again that you will! But what then of me? Of us?_

 _When I met Joseph, we were both very young and so in love. I thought that our love would last forever, that what we shared was unique! Never for one moment when Joseph was alive did I think there could be anyone else for me. How wrong I was! Death and separation can dim those feelings, as you yourself have discovered._

 _I did not think I would ever tell another man that I love him._

 _I love you, Charles._

 _Although we have known each other such a precious short time,_ _I can tell you I have not felt this way since Joseph. He will always be in a corner of my heart, as the father of our daughter. But life, Charles, is for the living. Joseph would have been the first person to tell me that._

 _Knowing how dangerous your path forward would be, my feelings for you will remain unchanged. Whatever happens, I will love you even if we are separated by great distances, by death, by injury._

 _You are entering Paris and will [I am convinced!] liberate the city and the country I love so dearly._

 _I am thinking of returning to Paris. I will be occupied mainly with the restoration of art works belonging to our people._ _It will keep me busy, keep my mind off missing Célestine too much._

 _I will know through radio communication when Paris will be free. I will then return home, my love. If you are still in the city, here is my address - 47 Rue Lion,_ _Saint Germain. A neighbour at number 49 is in possession of my front door key. Feel free to enter my home even if I'm not there! I am of course hoping, yes! I have renewed hope in life now, that our paths will cross again. I know they will! I would love to see you before you leave on your next assignment after Paris._

 _Will you do so, for me, please?_

 _All my love_

 _Katrine_

In the hastily erected barracks - an old school building - Charlie gave a deep sigh as he folded the letter again. Katrine had not read his letter when she had written this one. He had declared his love in his and now Katrine had declared her love for him. He felt the joy surge like a wildfire through him. He lay in a darkened, partitioned area in a large room against the pillow and closed his eyes. Katrine was worried about him but also strong and courageous, ready to face new adversities.

He felt in his bones that the war would be over in a matter of months. Before he could even allow himself to ponder on the end of the war, he would visit Katrine's home as soon as he was able to although he didn't think that she would be in Paris yet. By this time she would probably have received intelligence about the liberation of the city.

There was a soft knock on his door.

"Come."

Compton peeped through the door once he'd opened it.

"How are you feeling, Cappy?"

"Just a superficial wound, Compton."

"Captain! You were concussed! You were out cold for two days! The medics told us. Boy, that helmet sure stopped the bouncing bullet! I worry about you, you know?"

Miller smiled. It was more like _he_ was perpetually worried about Compton! Before he could reply, Linklater, Longman and Davis entered the room. Charlie quickly slipped the letter in its envelope and back between the pages of _Caesar's Gallic Wars_.

"That be the letter Riley hand delivered to you, Cappy?" Linklater asked, his unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. "Boy, was he shaking in his boots having to face you!"

"None of your business, Linklater. Now, why are you here?"

"That old fart General - "

"Patton."

"Yes, Patton, told us we should join the people lining the champ - champ - "

"Champs-Élysées," Davis corrected him.

"Yes. That. You coming, Captain?" Longman asked.

"Well, of course. I wouldn't miss the procession for the world."

And Miller remembered Patton's words, that the French Army was not too happy that the Allied Forces had routed the enemy in Paris, had set the liberation of France in motion. No wonder they were to be spectators only at the procession down the Champs-Élysées.

It was the morning after the procession of the French Army that the city of Paris woke up and donned the cloak of self-righteous outrage.

Charlie had gotten up, shaved, fixed the bandage on his arm and marched off to the canteen to eat some steaming thick porridge concocted by their mess hall sergeant. He was on his second mug of tea when Davis, Longman, Linklater, Compton and two young privates, Frazier Riley who'd been so scared of him, and Pfc Phillip Thompson, joined him. They seemed to have eaten already or they were eating in sidewalk cafes. Only Davis saluted him, something unnoticed by the others.

"We're hitting the streets this morning, Cappy. You're coming?"

"A dog would have barked, Longman!" Miller said without looking up from his mug.

Longman jumped up, followed by the others, saluting.

"Good morning, Captain, sir!"

"Good morning. At ease before you all sprain something."

"Yes, sir!"

When they were seated, Longman persisted, "Well, are you coming?"

"I'll see. Have to take another injection and clean the wound."

"I'll take that as a yes, Captain," Davis said, smiling.

"Give me an hour."

"Thank you, Cappy!" crowed Compton. "Boy, I'm going up the Eiffel Tower today, and row on the river. Say, Cappy, didn't you row for the University of Washington?"

"I did. No more talk of rowing, guys. One hour, outside the building."

Miller finished his tea in silence while the others kept up an incessant chatter, mostly about meeting French girls in the streets and practice saying " _Bonjour"_. It might be a good idea to walk around the city, then hire cycles when they got tired of walking. The Red Diamonds would be leaving the next morning, the badly injured going home and those, like him, given extended leave until they recovered enough to rejoin their units.

An hour later, Charlie stood outside the entrance of their temporary barracks. This time he wore his garrison cap, with a new uniform and his boots. He'd been given two injections and a fresh dressing put on his arm. He felt good, without pain, and the headache he'd had after he'd been shot had dissipated. Soon he was joined by Davis and the others. They noticed how other groups of soldiers were also making their way to the centre of the city, the amusement centres, galleries, famous buildings, cathedrals, the Eiffel Tower, the River Seine, the proliferation of cafes, restaurants and _boulangeries._

"What are you going to do when the war is over, Captain?" Robert asked. The others craned their necks suddenly to hear his answer. Miller ignored their curious glances.

"Yeah, Captain. You're going to row again?"

He'd thought of rowing, but that would be simply a pastime, teaching Evan, little Charlie and Winonah to row on Lake St. Clair. He and Edward would go out on the water if they all got together in Detroit. He thought of Katrine and everything that still seemed to be hanging in the air. But he had always known he'd be teaching.

"Pursue my doctoral studies and teach," he said finally. He heard Linklater whistling through his teeth.

"Boy, you are a learned man, Cappy!"

Charlie smiled. Both he and Edward had always buried themselves in books. He saw himself teaching at West Point or at one of the other universities. He'd be based in the United States. He thought of Robert Davis who'd expected Brigitte to leave France and live in America with him. Could he expect the same of Katrine? Would she leave France to be with him? Would he leave America to be with her? He'd developed a headache just thinking about her and the new, if tentative problems that seemed to suddenly raise their heads.

"What about you, Davis? You have a wife and kids."

"Still would like to be a design engineer."

"And build them rockets and fast airplanes? Maybe one of them flying saucers?"

Miller and Davis laughed out loud at Compton's expression.

"Yeah! You're right, man. What about you guys?"

"Me?" Compton answered, "I'm picking up where me daddy left off on our farm in Iowa. Been in me bones, Lieutenant. Always wanted to walk in wide open spaces. Yeah, that's me, after the goddam war."

"And I - " Linklater began when he stopped abruptly.

They were almost near the Champs-Élysées when they saw a commotion in one of the roads leading off the boulevard. Riley and Thompson rushed forward, but Miller called them back.

"It might not be our business, boys. Let's just walk naturally. It could be a family feud and for that they have their police, okay?"

But it seemed to them more than a family feud. Women were dragged screaming to the middle of the circle that had formed. People shouted, hissed, cursed in what sounded to them very offensive language. Even as they moved in the direction of the noise, more curious people scurried forward, joining in the cacophony that rose in the mid-morning sky.

"Boys..."

"We know, Captain. It's St. Clair all over."

Charlie turned ice-cold at the realisation of what they were about to witness. They approached the mob which seemed to be growing by the minute. Most of the screams came from those standing near the middle. In the wide open doorway they saw three women sitting on stools. Next to them were other women waiting quietly in line, their heads bent, though some of the mob spat at them. Men were shaving the women's heads in rough, vicious, elongated furrows. The first woman screamed when her skin resisted the blades and a cut appeared. One of the women waiting her turn was pregnant. She was being pushed and pulled by other angry women who slapped her belly.

"A German's baby! She should kill it! Shame! Whore!"

"No, goddamit!" cried Linklater who had protected Sandrine Desmarais from just such a fate. He pushed his way through, his action followed by the others. Miller barged through, knocking people off their feet. He rued that for once they weren't carrying their rifles. Before he could reach the woman who was injured, a Frenchman with a rifle blocked his way. He looked arrogant, ready to stop anyone from interfering.

"They are guilty of horizontal collaboration! They must be punished!" he yelled.

He pushed Miller roughly back against the first line of the human barricade. Charlie swore so inelegantly that Davis shouted, "Captain!" before he tried again to push forward. This time he was beaten back with the butt of the Frenchman's rifle. Charlie staggered back, only realising belatedly that the Frenchman carried some sort of badge on his arm. A member of the Resistance. Davis and the others were also prevented from making any move to assist the victims. Women in the crowd hissed and swore in their language, pointing crooked fingers at the hapless girls who were being shorn like sheep.

"You bunch of bloody bastards!" cried Compton.

One or two of the girls sat very still, afraid to move lest they incur severe cuts in their skin. Men fondled them, other women reached for the girl who looked to be about eighteen, weeping as they lifted her dress and roughly penetrated her private parts.

Charlie felt like murdering someone as he witnessed the young girl's humiliation. What had they done but fall in love, some of them? He tried pushing again to reach the doorway, but was held back.

"They are not goddam sheep!" Compton shouted.

"Shut up!" one of the women in the crowd shouted. "They are whores! Traitors!"

Then the crowd began to chant the word "whore" over and over, as if in a soporific trance. Miller and his men watched helplessly as the men shaved the women in such rough, ugly strokes that their scalps bled while others had their hands all over the defenceless victims, pulling the bodice of their dresses down, exposing their breasts and squeezing them roughly.

He wanted to weep, stung by the injustice and flagrant disregard for the girls, but his rage that had been boiling gradually until it spilled over was far greater than the urge to shed tears. Mob justice made the participants blind and deaf to moderation, respect, the need to stand up and demand that what they were doing was wrong, inexcusable.

Furiously Charlie lunged at the Resistance fighter, disarming the surprised man and dragging him roughly through the crowd to the other side of the road. From the corner of his eye he saw his men following him. Charlie pushed the Frenchman against the wall.

"I cannot kill you, though I'd like to, you filthy piece of horse manure! Now, before I really am tempted to separate your head from your body, you are going to allow us to take the women away from here once you have finished your disgraceful business. You got that?" Charlie saw the arrogance in the man's eyes and shoved his arm harder across the fighter's neck.

When the Frenchman resisted, Linklater piped up. "Hey, if I were you, I'd listen to my captain. He really can take your head off your body, okay? You heard the man. Let us do for those women what we can."

All the time Charlie's injured right arm pressed hard into the Frenchman's throat. He was scarcely aware that blood had begun to seep from the wound again or that he was developing a headache.

Davis spoke up next to him.

"It's alright, Captain. You can let the bastard go now. I think his fear is greater than his cowardice right now."

Longman closed in and with Davis they tried to extricate Miller from the Frenchman. When Miller was eventually freed, Longman grabbed the fighter and head-butted him. He rocked back against wall. By the time he shook his head to recover from the force of the blow, Longman had produced his army knife and wielded it in front of the miserable fighter.

"I'm watching you, my man. I have eyes at the back of my head. If you so much as touch any of those women after today, here's what I'll do. I can shoot a goddam coyote at a distance of a thousand goddam yards. You'll wish you were a goddam snake! Be afraid!"

"Come," said Davis and they headed across the road again. The women who were finished stood crying, while bystanders pushed them around and men lifted their skirts and fondled them. This time the US soldiers calmly escorted the women through the mob amidst hissing and swearing. Compton, 6ft 6in tall, bent down to one of the mob and hissed right back in her face. Shocked, the woman bounced against her friends who'd come to terrorise the girls.

Charlie had calmly walked up to one of the shearers and warned them not to break the women's skin.

"See the top of that building over there?" Charlie said to the startled man. "One of my sniper's rifles is trained on you. You work too roughly, you make one cut in any of the women's scalps, you will have a bullet in your head. Is that clear?" he whispered in the man's ear, much to the annoyance of the crowd.

Then Charlie calmly walked through, joining his men.

"Longman!"

"Yes, Captain!"

"You can let that vermin go. Let him know our eyes are on him."

"Will do, Cappy!"

Longman slapped the Frenchman a few times before he grabbed him again and pushed him up against the wall glaring furiously at the hapless fighter.

"I wouldn't want to tell my grandchildren one day that their grandfather stood by and did nothing to help those defenceless women, you worthless rat!" Then he let go of the Frenchman so abruptly that he pitched forward fell down.

Miller reckoned if the police arrived, they'd be apathetic, likely to join in the injustice they witnessed. Riley, he noticed, had run back, swore at the men who shaved the girls, then grabbed the Resistance fighter's rifle from one of the women and unloaded the weapon.

"Okay, ready Captain!"

"Please," Miller said to the first girl, "come with us. We will see that you are safe and treat your wounds, do you understand?"

Charlie was shocked at the sight of her. Her hair had been roughly shorn off and she had bleeding cuts. Her face was dirty and she looked bedraggled. She'd been manhandled, probably ripped from her home and dragged into the streets.

Charlie held out his hand and waited for her response. She looked at him, her eyes wet as she placed her hand in his.

"We will wait for the others, " he said as Davis and the rest brought the women who had cuts on their heads.

"What do we do now, Captain?"

Charlie looked at the woman next to him. Her eyes were blue, reminding him suddenly of Katrine. A world of shame lay in them as she nodded, then looked at the other women. They kept their eyes lowered, staring at points somewhere on the ground, refusing to look at the American soldiers. The men had been vicious, the women treated with violence. The pregnant girl wept quietly. Their heads looked choppy, haphazardly shorn so that little tufts stood up. They appeared shattered, and when one of them looked up at last, he saw the humiliation in her eyes. It was reflected in every woman standing there and every woman who would still suffer the ignominy of shorn heads in acts of cowardice, disrespect and violence elsewhere in the city. His regiment would do what they could for the victims of these shameful deeds.

"We take you to our medical tents, okay?" he told the woman who held his hand. She was brave, he thought, like Katrine, her eyes red with unshed tears. "Come."

"Thank you, Captain. Thank you."

So they escorted the women to their emergency medical set-up near their barracks. They started talking to the women who understood very little English, but Charlie could swear they understood the sentiment of the words that issued haltingly from their lips. One of them had her arm around the pregnant girl's shoulders. He could hear her sobbing softly.

One woman must have had hair the colour of ripened corn judging by the yellowish tufts that stood out on her scalp. When he chanced to look at her, he drew in his breath. Though no woman could look as beautiful as Katrine, this woman had classic features, a face that could light up a silver screen. She also spoke the most, if her halting English could pass as conversation.

He moved to speak to the blonde girl. The tufts on her head stirred as she walked, giving the impression of corn swaying in the breeze.

When he reached her side, she looked at him.

"You are - are _Capitaine_ , yes?"

"Captain Charles Miller."

"My name is Stephané Marceau."

"You are okay? You were crying back there. They were very rough."

Stephané paused, looking quickly at the others, then pulled Miller aside.

"I slept with no German," she whispered, the heat bouncing off her impassioned words. "Never!"

"You might have been set up?" he asked.

"Jealousy," she said, the fire slowly leaving her eyes, "can turn people into fiends, enemies..."

Charlie nodded, instinctively knowing what she was conveying to him. When they reached the medical tents, they saw other groups of the regiment who'd also accompanied women who were badly manhandled by the angry mobs.

"France is angry," said Stephané, her words filled with sadness. "In fifty years they will have forgotten what they had done. Perhaps even deny that it happened. Right now, they think they were right."

"Do not worry, Stephané. This moment will be recorded in history as France's ugliest moment, not something about which every Frenchman would be proud. Let me tell you, very soon you will look like a queen."

And Stephané Marceau smiled for the first time since she had been unceremoniously dragged from her home into the streets, her face transforming into an aching beauty.

The medics and nurses cleaned their cuts, the army barbers came in and smoothed the women's heads so that they looked ironically more beautiful. The women were happy that the uneven cutting and shaving had been given a cleaner, smooth appearance. Most had sutures in the deep cuts on their heads. They had been told to seek out their local doctors and district nurses to tend to the cuts.

Charlie knew that some of the women had little choice, like Katrine, in their liaisons with Germans. Others had fallen genuinely in love and wanted to make a life with their partners. He'd heard from Davis that two of the women had children by their German lovers, most of whom were either dead or placed in prisoner of war camps. Others still, like Stephané, were punished for their uncommon beauty; - a simple word, a whisper here, little gossip there, and she was the live-in lover of a German officer.

He instructed the men of A Company to escort the women to their homes. He had a feeling that the collective rage of the mass had simmered down by late afternoon. Ironically, their shaved heads were indications that they'd already been humiliated, and were nothing that a scarf or wig couldn't hide. If there were any more incidents, they were probably isolated by now.

It was a deeply worried Captain Miller who headed back to the barracks to get some rest. He'd been given another injection for the pain in his arm. After the incident with the enraged Resistance soldier, he'd ruptured two sutures and his arm had been bleeding by the time they'd reached the medics.

Walking back he worried about several things at once. One was accommodation once the 5th Infantry left to advance further north, through Verdun, Alsace-Lorraine and into Belgium. He would get one of the jeeps to take him north on September 7. He worried about Katrine and couldn't stop shuddering, thinking about the violence inflicted on the women in Paris. He couldn't bear the thought of her being pushed so viciously and then have chunks of her hair cut out without caring about injury.

When he entered his room at the barracks, he was still shaking. He had no inclination to go out into the streets again. He lay on his bed, hand behind his head, thinking, but it seemed the restlessness was growing in him. He tossed about on the bed, tried reading, but even _Caesar's Gallic Wars_ held little appeal.

Realising he hadn't eaten since morning, he got up and walked to the mess hall. He was nursing a full blown headache but up until now had refused to take the additional painkillers and sedatives the medics had given him.

"Anything for you, Captain?" asked the mess hall sergeant.

"Roast leg of lamb, potatoes, glazed carrots, minced pies?"

"Ah, you'll have to settle for good old - "

"Pea and carrot stew with lots of potato...and rice?"

"Sorry!"

"No, don't ever be. I was meandering in my mother's kitchen!"

Once he'd eaten, he poured a glass of water and downed the tablets, hoping they'd do the job of clearing the resurging pain in his arm and his throbbing headache. He went back to his room and lay down on the bed again. This time he pulled out Katrine's letter and began reading, mulling over her invitation to visit her at her home in the city. He doubted whether she'd be there, but it wouldn't hurt if he went there, anyway.

His eyes drooped as the medication began taking effect. Soon the letter fluttered from his lifeless fingers onto his chest. Charles was asleep within minutes, lost in the oblivion of nothingness.

When he woke groggily hours later, he felt a little better. At least the headache was gone and the pain in his arm had dimmed to a dull throb. Still, the restlessness remained as memories of what had happened in the streets began to flood him again.

"No, no..." Charles cried softly, trying to will away the images of clippers that cut into skin, women touched all over their bodies, trying to hide their humiliation. He saw their shame, their meek demeanour when waiting in a line, only to be spat at, shouted at, abused. He heard the rustling of paper and realised it was Katrine's letter. With a soft curse he folded it carefully again, back in its envelope and between the pages of his book.

On a sudden impulse he got up, put on a clean shirt and his jacket. He packed all his belongings in his duffel and headed for the road behind the barracks. He always rode in the second jeep and had come to think of it as his.

"Elsevier!"

"Captain?"

Johannes Elsevier raised his head from the back of the jeep. Charlie half expected another head to jump up next to his. It was still hot for late summer, a glorious evening, one that invited little trysts in the dark. His driver remained innocent, a stocky young man of medium height, but very strong. He'd boxed against the soldier a few times in Iceland and Northern Ireland. Elsevier was a wizard with anything that moved on the road.

"I need the jeep," he told the private.

"Where can I take you, Captain?" Elsevier asked, rubbing his hand in glee at the prospect of driving Captain Miller all over Paris.

"You stay right here. I need to go somewhere."

Elsevier looked suspiciously at him, then relented only slightly when Charlie held out his hand for the ignition key.

"I know the city, sir..."

"Don't make me put you on kitchen duty, Elsevier."

And Elsevier remembered how Compton peeled potatoes in Iceland 'til his fingers bled because he irritated the captain. He was a driver, he could follow trails with his nose through the city. What did the captain know? Back home, he steered a logging truck all over Washington State. If the captain wanted to, he'd drive him all the way from here to Dakar. Think about it, Paris to Dakar! Oh, the captain was going to get lost! The man still had his hand outstretched, waiting for the key. Eventually Elsevier handed the keys to Charlie.

"You gonna bring the jeep back, Captain?" Elsevier asked.

"I'm keeping the jeep, Elsevier. You will transfer to one of the trucks tomorrow. I will meet up with the Red Diamonds early September."

Elsevier nodded, but kept his gaze on Charlie. The captain didn't look well to him. He looked spaced-out. His eyes were red as if he'd either slept too much or slept too little. Also, Elsevier noticed how the captain's hands trembled and he was certain that it wasn't because of the bullet wound in his arm. It wasn't even that he almost killed a citizen of France today. His buddies Linklater and Compton had told everyone in the barracks of the captain's fury. No, it wasn't that either.

"Sir, are you okay?" the young private asked when Charlie began to shudder again.

"Don't worry about me. That's an order!"

"Please, don't murder anyone tonight, Captain!"

"Elsevier, out of my way!

"Yes, sir!" Elsevier crowed as he saluted and promptly jumped into the back of one of the other jeeps.

Charlie began driving away from the barracks, heading towards Saint Germain. He had memorised Katrine's address. It was a good thing he'd studied maps of the city when the company had travelled from St. Clair. The last week or so, their combats had taken them all over the city. He ought to have a good idea of his bearings. If Katrine wasn't there, he'd ask the neighbour for her key as she'd instructed in her letter.

After an hour of driving around the city, he knew he was lost when he found himself near the Arc de Triomphe. For the third time. He was also feeling decidedly under the weather. He didn't really have a headache but it felt like dolphins were swimming around in his head and making him drunk. Sighing, he turned away from the monument, heading in the opposite direction, belatedly seeing the sign reading _Saint Germain._ He followed the signs, satisfied at last that he was making some progress.

So he kept on driving, his thoughts on Katrine and how he was going to warn her not to step outside her home, he'd be there to protect her. He was going to park his vehicle outside her door and kill the first man who bothered her. He wasn't even certain that she'd be there, but it didn't matter. He shook his head hard to dispel the shudders that seemed to take control of his body. Were the dolphins taking up-and-down dives in giant sweeping arcs in his brain? He was tired, he was restless, he was in a foul mood. But mostly, the memories of the humiliated women flooded his head and swam with the dolphins round and round and round.

"God damn you all!" he cried out in the darkness that had descended on Paris. "Keep away from me!"

Finally he found a street. The signpost read _Rue Beatrice_. Another three blocks. He drove slowly down that road until he saw the name on the post. Now he was getting somewhere. How long had he been driving around in the vast city with streets and avenues and boulevards that seemed to force him to go in circles?

 _Rue Lion..._

He drove slowly until he reached the number 47. When he stopped, he could see a light burning in a window that faced the street. His heart raced as he climbed out and stumbled to her door. All the time the echoes bounced around in his skull, refusing to slow down. Faces flashed before him, then blinding light followed by giant clippers, berets, heads that looked like plucked chickens... Meanwhile the dolphins continued swimming in his head, competing with the giant clippers and plucked chickens. He thought he was going crazy.

"Go away..." he begged the echoes. "Please..."

Forcing himself to focus on the reality of the black night, a great door in front of him, images of Katrine, Charlie saw the knocker with the head of a lion.

He gripped the lion's head and banged the knocker loudly before collapsing against the doorjamb

Charles Miller waited for the door to open. He needed to be with her; every fibre in his body screamed to be soothed by her touch. He closed his eyes, exhausted. He was just going to bang the knocker again when the door creaked open.

An angel stood in the doorway, bathed in an aura of light.

"Katrine..." he murmured her name before she caught him in her arms.

END CHAPTER TWELVE

A/N - As always, I appreciate your comments!


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 **We'll always have Paris - September 1944**

Katrine du Pléssis was a little on edge, mainly because she'd arrived on the day that the Paris mobs had gone wild shaving women's heads. She'd arrived early that morning in her old Peugeot when it was still dark in St. Clair. She'd heard news on the radio about the scandalous behaviour of the mob - men and women who humiliated those accused of sleeping with the enemy.

So she'd kept indoors, not daring to wander the streets like a snooping gossipmonger looking for outrageous activities. She was curious, she had to admit, but the idea of going out to stand by and watch women being degraded, stuck in the craw.

It was good to be home, to do some tidying, although her neighbour had kindly gotten in help to maintain her home. A thrill had coursed through her when she stopped in front of her house. All the bad memories she'd had about Paris had receded during the last six weeks. There were very, very few shadows now. Since she'd met Charles Anson Miller, she'd learnt to love again, to be spontaneous.

 _Charles_.

How could she not fall in love with him? How would she ever be able to forget him? His letter all but confirmed his feelings for her, knowing that if he'd read her letter the day they left St. Clair, that she had expressed the same. Even now, just thinking about him, she imagined his masculine smell, his ruggedness, the hard planes of his body, his strength, his kindness, his sense of justice.

She missed him desperately.

She had to come to Paris. She was always going to return to the city of her birth. She'd left the _Coeur de Lion_ in the capable hands of Lamine and Solange, who would run it for her for a percentage of the profit. They looked happy, she thought, her resentment that they were always in one another's company just fleeting. She was only hoping that she'd see Charles now that she was back in Paris. It would be almost a month since they'd last been together.

Lamine had told her that he and Solange planned to marry soon. Katrine was happy for them, especially Lamine who'd had such a traumatic life. They deserved every happiness the gods could bestow on them.

It was getting colder now in the evenings, autumn rearing its head and with it, bitter weather and early darkness. On an impulse she'd lit a fire in the great hearth in the lounge. There was a warm glow about the room. She'd dimmed the main light and then wound up the old phonograph. She had a good collection of recordings. She couldn't care whatever happened to Jürgen Schult's collection. If they trampled them to pieces, then good riddance. Seconds later the strains of a violin sonata - one of Célestine's favourites - filled the air. If only _Charles_ were here to share everything with her!

It was very late and after she'd had supper and relaxed for almost an hour in her tub, she walked into the lounge again, too restless to sleep. She sat in the deep chair that had been Joseph's favourite where he used to sit with Célestine on his lap and listen to her reading. Then Katrine jumped up and sat on the big couch, so deep and soft she could drown in it. Her face glowed from the heat of the embers in the fireplace. She played another recording, this time Debussy's _Clair de Lune_.

She gave a deep sigh and allowed her thoughts to stray to Charles.

She wondered what he was doing now. She knew his regiment had fought off the Germans in the city, helping the French Army gain victory. Charles was a true leader, a hardened fighter, one who cared about his troops. What if he had been shot and seriously injured? She gave a little cry of distress at that thought. Charles would survive this war, she was convinced of that. That was just the kind of warrior he was.

Would he come to her and assure her once again of his love, the words falling like pearls from his mouth? Her eyes flew open, to a spot on the mantelpiece. Pride of place was the framed sketch he'd done of the eagles. Next to it stood a studio photograph of Célestine, her beautiful child, taken a few months before her capture. Katrine had taken down the picture of Joseph and stored it with the rest of his things in the basement.

Joseph would have wanted her to get on with her life.

She was grateful for the blessings of second chances.

When the music stopped, she rose reluctantly to put on another recording. At that moment there was a loud knock on her door.

Hear heart beat so wildly that she could feel the throbbing in her ears. What if the Resistance fighters came to her door? What if they knew of her liaison with Schult? A moment of anxiety assailed her when she walked to the window, moving the curtain only slightly, to check who was outside. She gave a loud gasp.

Then she rushed to open the door.

She was unprepared for what she saw.

Charles stood, leaning against the jamb, as dejected a man as any she had seen who had ever lost something precious, or witnessed unspeakable pain, heartache and degradation. He didn't move from where he leaned against the jamb in a precarious position. There was a bloodstain on his right sleeve. Shivering uncontrollably, he gazed at her, unseeing, the evidence of it only in his hands and fingers.

Only after a moment, when he could focus, did he recognise her.

"Katrine..."

"Oh, _Charles_!" she cried his name softly before he pitched drunkenly forward and she caught him in her arms. She led him inside towards the couch where she made him sit down. He slumped against the soft cushions, keeping his gaze on her. She caressed his cheek, frowning when she felt how warm it was. But she'd seen his jeep through the window.

"I'll be back, _ma chérie,_ " she said softly, then rushed outside.

She shook her head when she saw he'd left the key in the ignition and removed it quickly. Then she looked on the back seat of the vehicle and saw his duffel and rucksack, his helmet and rifle slung through one of the loops. Sighing, she took the heavy duffel first and dropped it in the small entranceway, then ran back out to get the rest of his gear.

Charles had not moved since she'd left him. He looked distracted, unable to utter a word. What was wrong with him? she thought with growing concern. He wasn't ill like she had seen Lamine who'd almost died of his wound. She touched his hand this time, but there was no response to her touch.

" _Charles_?"

He heard her, for he turned his head to look at her. Katrine frowned, feeling a little helpless. Then she wondered what Joseph would have done.

 _When a patient looks distressed beyond measure, Katrine, it means that he harbours a great torment but is unable to speak of it. Sometimes it is better just_ _to hold that person to you and wait._

Katrine took a deep breath, then she calmly took Charles's hand.

"Come," she said quietly in a comforting voice.

He rose to his feet allowing, allowing her to lead him. Katrine walked down the passage to her bedroom. She didn't switch on the light but felt her way to the bed. She turned down the bed, keeping the warm blanket she'd put there earlier because the nights were getting colder. He stood still while she removed his jacket and hung it over a chair. Next she unbuttoned his shirt and placed that too on the chair, leaving his khaki tank top on. Only then did she see the dressing on his upper arm. The wound had bled through at some point so she made a mental note to apply a fresh dressing later. Katrine tried not to show her own distress at his silence. She removed his boots and trousers, concerned that he showed little reaction.

Katrine made him lie on his side on the bed and pulled the blankets over him, then she spooned herself to him, sliding her hand over his chest and pressed herself against him. His hand covered hers, the first independent thing he'd done since she led him into the house.

She allowed his nearness to fill her, and pressed her hand firmer against him to let him feel she wasn't going away. From time to time she pressed her lips into his back.

For Charles was still shuddering; he had been shaking since he fell into her arms at the front door and it had continued unabated, though she felt rather than saw it. How long had he been like this? she wondered. What had he experienced during his combats? It was impossible to ask him what ailed him, for she knew he would not speak. He acted like someone in extreme shock. How could she offer solace to the man she loved who looked so devastated?

So she began speaking to him, her voice a whisper.

"You told me once how your father told you stories his mother used to tell him. She was a Native American, you said. You grew up listening to the tales of the warrior. There was one story your father told you. I wonder if you still remember telling it to me. I told you it was a beautiful story, of a warrior and the eagle...

So Katrine spoke to Charles in her native French. The words fell from her lips in gentle cadences and they floated on her breathing against his back and entered his body so that they filled him.

She told him about the great warrior and the eagle. She spoke about the warrior's courage, how his tribe respected him. Then one day during a battle against another tribe, a giant eagle circled above the battleground until the enemy had been vanquished. The eagle flapped its magnificent wings and the warrior was astonished by the size of its wingspan. He could not stop looking at the mighty bird of prey and it seemed to him as if the eagle was trying to convey to him a message, as if it said, "Follow me..."

It was then that the brave warrior instructed his tribesmen to return to their village so that he could follow the eagle to unknown lands. He followed the great bird across the widest rivers, over great lakes, over deserts dried by the unforgiving sun, over mountains great and small. Once, the eagle turned and spotted the warrior lagging far behind him and he asked, "Shall I carry you upon my wings?" For the eagle saw that the warrior had become weary and dispirited. When the warrior tried to speak, words failed him for his mouth had dried, so his sorrow increased. The eagle landed where the warrior had fallen. "Come," said the eagle, "let me carry you across the great waters and the tallest mountains." The warrior felt the surge of air beneath him as the eagle took flight. Up, up, up he soared far above the clouds. The warrior rested his head wearily against the eagle's back and felt his whole body transform to peace.

When the men of his tribe cast their eyes towards the heavens, they saw the great eagle, shielding the bright sun with their hands. And it seemed to them that the eagle and the warrior had become one.

Katrine felt how the shudders slowly, very slowly, began to subside. She released her hand from his and caressed his hair, his cheek, pressing her lips against his back. She slipped her hand back in his and continued speaking to him in soft tones, even though trying to keep the tears from her voice. She told him many little tales and legends that night, of wolves who howl their lonely songs to the night sky, about dolphins and little darting creatures and scorpions, of tribal dances to let the rain come, of dances to rejoice in the hunt. When she moved her hand to touch his lips, he responded so lightly, so briefly that it could have been a whisper. Her heart soared.

Katrine kept her hand against his chest, felt the quickening of his heart beat, a strong, healthy rhythm. Charles gave her hand a squeeze.

"I love you, _Charles_ ," she whispered against his back.

Katrine's voice filled his being, her words, their softness, the gentle cadences of her language touched his echoes and consumed them. One by one they began to dissipate, the echoes leaving smaller echoes until they too disappeared into the solace of her voice.

She lay spooned closely to him, and her nearness brought the final wakefulness in him. He had been deeply cold inside, tormented by those images that wouldn't leave, mocking him unceasingly. Now Katrine held him to her and he could revel in her closeness. She didn't ask questions, simply took him and knew what to do. Speaking words would have tortured him more. They had been his punishment, his head and mouth refusing to comply to his anguished commands.

Her voice dragged him back to sanity, to a clarity of mind that rippled through his body and brought him peace. He covered her hand, the immediacy of the touch so welcome he gripped her tighter to him. He felt the deep sigh that escaped her, her breath warm against his back.

How long had she spoken? Hours? He couldn't remember. But the harmony, the stillness of his body, the absence of the echoes that had caused him to shut down, created in him a different kind of drowning. Her voice had drifted off, he realised. His eyes drooped finally and sleep overpowered him in helpless oblivion.

Charlie awoke to total silence, with light streaming through the window, throwing Katrine's body in soft silhouette. She was still sleeping deeply, so he got out of the bed very quietly and went in search of his bags. Even through his agitated condition of last night, he sensed that she had gone outside and brought them in.

He found the bags in the small entrance hall of the house. To his left he spotted another room with a single bed. He entered the room which appeared too spartan to have been the bedroom of a six or seven year old child. It must have been Lamine's room. He unpacked a few things, desperately needing a shower and shave. Katrine had practically undressed him last night. He had no shame nor embarrassment. They were lovers. He knew her body as well as she knew his.

Finding the things he needed he looked for the bathroom which he located near the back of the house. Half an hour later he was dressed in a shirt and army trousers with cargo pockets. He tiptoed into Katrine's bedroom, staring down at the sleeping figure. She looked angelic. In fact, last night he thought she was an angel standing in the doorway, with a halo of light above her head. She must have kept up her soft whispering for hours and then had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. He didn't want to wake her yet, so he headed for the kitchen. He was no stranger to cooking thanks to Mama and Pop who made the boys do tours of duty in the scullery. He'd fix breakfast for them later, but right now he needed coffee.

He felt much, much better than yesterday. He had very hazy recollections of what had happened to him from the moment he'd threatened to put Elsevier on mess hall duty if he didn't relinquish the keys of the jeep. He'd driven around the city for hours, realising after the first hour that he was hopelessly lost. It was a miracle he'd made it to Katrine's house considering how spaced out he'd been, a condition brought on by the concussion he suffered.

With a mug of steaming coffee he walked back to the bedroom, only to see Katrine easing into wakefulness, twitching her nose as the aroma of the coffee assailed her. She lay a few seconds adjusting to waking up before her eyes connected with the mug in his hand.

"I hope that is for me, _Charles_."

"Of course. Coffee...not my thing anyway. Ask Mama."

She sat up in bed and looked at him for long moments. He met her gaze and didn't waver from it. The dolphins, the echoes and their little echoes were all gone. Katrine looked beautiful in the morning, even with her hair a little mussed. She had been extraordinary during the night.

"You can see me," she said softly, her voice filled with wonder.

"Yes," he replied, handing her the coffee.

She took a few sips and closed her eyes as she enjoyed the taste of it. Charlie sat down beside her, trailing a finger down her arm.

"I heard every story and every legend. It was miraculous."

"You were in no condition to speak of what ailed you. I was frantic at first, until I remembered something Joseph had said years ago."

"What was that?"

"Sometimes it is better not to force that person - he said 'patient' - to speak of his ills. Rather embrace him gently and hold on to him for as long as he needs your touch."

"It worked. I felt the echoes that tormented me all day leave gradually, the shaking easing off until it stopped eventually. I am humbled by your compassion. It is one of your qualities which I love."

They were quiet while she enjoyed the coffee. There were no hurried movements about her, no concern over whether he would speak of yesterday, her bearing one of trust.

"I had hoped you would come, _Charles_ ," she said when she put the mug down on the bed stand. "I missed you. It has been a very long month since I saw you."

"I thought of you every day," he replied, stroking her cheek this time. "I read your letter..."

"I read yours." She took his hands in hers. " _Charles_..."

"What is it, my love?"

"Where do we go from here?"

He saw how her eyes shifted with the uncertainty that lurked in them. Where indeed did they go from there? Katrine took care of him, like he knew she would if they ever should grow old together. Grow old together. He liked the idea. But right now he needed to allay her fears, and started by leaning in to kiss her.

Katrine lifted her face the instant Charles bent to kiss her. She felt his breath on her, then the touch of his lips, desire coursing like a sudden wildfire through her.

" _Charles_ , oh, _Charles_!" she cried in ecstasy as he broke contact, his eyes smouldering black. Very slowly he pushed her gently back against the pillows.

"Let me touch you, or I'll go mad with want," he murmured huskily as he shifted to lie over her. He moved the strap of her nightie over her shoulder and dropped a heated kiss there. Katrine embraced him, her arms pressing him closer to her.

"Love me."

Katrine had no idea where Charles's boots, trousers and shirt had flown in his wild frenzy to tear off his clothes, the final barrier causing him to cry out as he pressed himself against her. Now, an hour later they lay sated in the aftermath of their loving. They didn't care about time, though Katrine trusted Charles that his presence in her home meant that he was on some kind of medical leave and not absent without leave.

They lay on their backs, her hand held in his and occasionally he would squeeze her hand very gently. It was good, loving him. It was good, waiting...

He moved, bracing himself on his elbow, looking deeply into her eyes. She gave a tentative smile, wondering what was on his mind. There were so many things they had to talk about. So many. Yet, the look in Charles's eyes was different, somehow, from the simple need to discuss arrangements.

His eyes held the truth of yesterday.

"I lost many of my men in battle," he began softly. "Wainwright, remember the one who sang like the great Caruso? Baxter, my radioman, the guitarist - died in my arms."

"Oh, _mon cher!_ How sad!"

"A third of my regiment either died or have been sent home."

"You have an injury - "

"I insisted on reporting again for duty." Charles bent to kiss her, the touch lingering, causing them both to moan with pleasure.

"You are stubborn, Captain Miller. Your wound needs a fresh dressing!"

Charles smiled bleakly, the serious tone back in his voice.

"We were involved in heavy fighting. Then I got shot on one of the Seine crossings. Here, through my arm and a bullet bounced off my helmet. It was enough to - "

"Cause concussion. Of course!"

"What is so 'of course' about it?"

"That was why you were so confused last night. I don't think you were very aware of your surroundings. You were unable to speak, or even answer if I had asked you questions. You stared at me with a glazed expression! But did something else happen, my love? You were in shock as if you had seen something repulsive."

"There were dolphins swimming around my head, bouncing around the echoes of - of what I'd experienced and witnessed."

Then suddenly Charles pulled her to him, into a sitting position. He held her so tightly that she found it difficult to breathe. He gave a deep sob, then he kissed her face, her hair, held her close again.

" _Charles_?"

She almost forcibly pushed him from her, but not letting him go. He looked dazed again, but only momentarily.

"Yesterday," he began in a heavy voice, "yesterday France was angry. The men took out their anger on the women..."

Katrine had been afraid of that, had wondered why she'd returned so early to Paris. She nodded.

"The women in St. Clair were lucky," he continued. "They escaped the fate of the women who were violated. I say violated, Katrine, for there is no better way of describing how those bastards treated the women. Even other women who came to watch out of curiosity were just as unjust, poking their hands - "

Charles frowned deeply. It was difficult to recount what they'd seen yesterday. Katrine waited patiently.

Then Charles started speaking again, telling how the women stood and waited in line. He spoke of how the men were so rough when they shaved their heads that the blades of the clippers cut deeply into their skin. He spoke of how they fondled the women and how the women stood still. He spoke of how they reminded him of rabbits when they were picked up by their ears, how they wouldn't move because any movement would hurt further. The women had stood there, unable to retaliate, when other women hissed at them, emulating the men in touching the victims' bodies, lifting their skirts and groping between their legs. He spoke how the cutting was so ragged that the women looked like tufts of grass were plastered on their head.

Charles spoke of his unbridled anger, of trying to help, of being beaten back by a French resistance fighter with a rifle. " _They are whores! They are guilty of horizontal collaboration_." He couldn't see how the humiliation of the women could carry on.

"I almost killed the resistance fighter," he said in a deadly calm voice.

He spoke of how he'd disarmed the fighter, then almost strangled him to death, how Davis and Longman struggled to extricate him from the Frenchman. His men had gone into the crowd and they had taken the women with their bleeding scalps - one was a young pregnant girl - to their own medical tents where their barbers had smoothed the ugly crude shearing. He told her how the medics stitched the gashes on the women's scalps.

He spoke of how his arm had started bleeding again and how he couldn't explain why his headaches persisted.

"Longman, you know Longman?"

Katrine nodded.

"Longman told the Frenchman something that echoed in my heart yesterday, in fact in the hearts of all my troops who were with me."

"What did he say?"

"He wouldn't like to tell his grandchildren one day that their grandfather simply stood by and watched how men publicly abused and humiliated women."

Katrine understood how the events had rocked Charles and how it was exacerbated by his concussion. She held him to her, kissed his forehead, his mouth, hugged him again, glad that Charles's eyes were a lot clearer now.

"There, that should do it," Katrine said as she tied off the dressing on his arm. The sutures had stayed in, mercifully, even after the wound had bled again.

Katrine had given a motherly cluck when he'd taken off the old bandage and she'd seen the stitches on both sides of his arm.

"It's an exit wound, honey," he'd said earlier when she expressed her shock.

"Ah, but you should have seen Lamine's leg. He developed a serious infection that could have killed him! Joseph performed a miracle! You should not speak so lightly of your injury!"

"I love that you are so concerned - "

"But I am!"

He'd kissed her silly before they'd gotten in the shower together, made love, showered again, then got dressed.

Now Charles looked at his arm, feeling much better than he had in days.

"What's that?" he asked.

Katrine held a syringe in her hand, already filled with something.

"I am a scientist, _Charles_. Do not worry so! Joseph called it a miracle drug - penicillin. It will bring down the infection and kill all germs. There."

He'd pulled his face when she ministered the injection, then he kissed her deeply before he pulled on his shirt.

Later they sat at her kitchen table enjoying a late breakfast, or was it early lunch? Katrine didn't care. Charles was with her and that made her extremely happy.

"How long, _Charles_?" she asked him after biting into a croissant.

"I report for duty on September 7," he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

Katrine smiled, then her smile froze.

"What is it, my love?"

"No - no, it's nothing. I'm glad. We have a few days. There are so many things I want to show you!"

"I'd be happy to experience them all with you," he said, grinning.

"But first, you have to get into civilian clothes, no?"

"I - uh, would like to remain in military gear, if you don't mind."

"Good. I was just testing."

"Now, you know your city better than I do - "

"You got lost yesterday?"

"Circled the perimeter for hours," Charlie muttered as he put on his garrison cap.

Katrine dared to laugh, but it lightened the mood. "That was why you were so confused and distracted last night! My poor darling!"

"Come here, you little minx!"

Charlie stood completely amazed at what Katrine and her resistance group had accomplished. They were standing in the drawing room of the Evremondes, the paintings they had recovered from the Languedoc Estate's bunker 3 now resting against a wall.

Old Monsieur and Madame Evremonde had tears in their eyes and couldn't shake Katrine's hand enough. They had greeted him with mild curiosity, once assured that he wasn't a German SS officer. Then they smiled effusively at him too when Katrine's hand sought his and he gave it a little squeeze.

He didn't understand what they were saying, making a mental note to learn the language. If he and Katrine... He pushed that thought away from him, just very, very happy to be in her company.

He had been astounded when she drove him through an isolated area and stopped just beyond a bridge.

"Well? Are you going to follow me?" she asked.

"Where are we?"

"You'll see."

Katrine walked to a lavender bush and from there counted her steps. She'd opted to wear a pair of casual trousers, something that had him raising an eyebrow before they left her house, but he'd made no comment.

She stepped down into the wide ditch to the opposite side, and hidden from the view of motorists or anyone walking past, opened a door. He had to crouch low to pass through and follow her. She'd picked up a torch that had lain in a box and started counting steps while he virtually had to duck not to hit the roof of the tunnel.

When they'd eventually stood inside the bunker, he gasped. "This is incredible work you've done, Katrine!"

"It was our mission. Some of these paintings were taken from art galleries. They represent the work of the greatest artists from France, Belgium, Italy, Greece, Holland, even Germany. We were only the custodians. If you take this one here and look at the back - " Katrine waited for him to take a painting carefully, "you'll notice at the bottom on the frame is the owner's name. We are returning their paintings. You are the first to witness the return of the Cezanne, Renoir, Monet, and two other works to the legal owners. That is where we are going today."

He could only stare at her in mute admiration, feeling his eyes burn with unshed tears. He felt his eyes burn with unshed tears. How many paintings had been stolen, confiscated, destroyed by the Germans? How many were still hidden somewhere in Germany? Katrine's own painting had been stolen from her home. What these incredible warriors of the resistance had done was save what they could before the enemy could lay its hands on them. Once, Katrine had told him that the Germans took everything not their own and made it theirs.

The bunker was packed with art works and Katrine had her work cut out in the restoration process. She'd probably get Lamine to come to Paris to assist her, especially when he, Charles, would be rejoining his troops.

With the paintings wrapped and strapped to his back, they'd retraced their steps and carefully made it out of the tunnel. They'd both blinked several times in the bright sunlight, made for the Peugeot and headed towards the very grateful Evremondes.

"Will you not stay? For tea?"

"Please do excuse us, Mme Evremonde, but we have other engagements. We cannot stay."

They said goodbye to the couple. Back in the car he turned to look at Katrine. On an impulse he leaned across and kissed her.

"You are wonderful, you know that?"

Katrine smiled, her mouth curving at the corner. Minutes later they were off. He had no idea where she was driving, but it was Paris countryside, with vineyards as far as the eye could see. It was an image of France, with its viticulture, grand chateaux and wine estates that he'd keep engraved on his mind forever.

"Where are we going?"

"I promised the owners of the Languedoc Estate we'd visit them today."

"When did you have time to do that, my sweet love?" he asked. Katrine constantly surprised him and he loved that about her.

"In Joseph's little surgery he had a telephone installed. I called them this morning."

After driving for about fifteen minutes, they entered the arched gateway to the Languedoc estate, where the Charpentiers were waiting for them. Charles was glad he was wearing his uniform. It lent a certain distinguished air that instilled reassurance in them. He was determined to show his country in a good light.

"We'll be lunching there," she told him.

"Any Germans there?"

"They left on the day of their surrender. There was no point in them staying. They couldn't, anyway. The French Army would have been after them. If they were not killed, they are most likely prisoners of war now. I don't care what happens to them, _Charles._ They seized the chateau of the landowners and whored every Frenchwoman in the rooms of Languedoc. They acted like the conquerors they were, stealing what was never theirs. I am sorry if I sound bitter..."

"Don't ever be sorry. It is over, for France, at least."

"Yes," she said softly as she stopped the Peugeot in front of the great home. It was a sprawling homestead with wine cellars. The doors opened and out came the Charpentiers. They greeted Katrine warmly, Madame Charpentier's face full of smiles. Katrine introduced Charles to them. They looked at Katrine and they looked at Charles and they decided that the destiny of the two was inextricably entwined, whatever the future might hold for them.

In the dining hall, they sat down to lunch. Charles looked around and saw on the mantelpiece a picture of four cyclists. One of them seemed familiar to him, like Berry...

"Please, if I may," he began, "who are those cyclists in the picture?"

Madame Charpentier smiled kindly. "Our son was an Olympic cyclist. He won individual gold as well as team gold - "

"Charpentier? I remember. There was a huge spill that day - "

"That is so, _Capitaine._ "Did you know him?"

"Just the one cyclist in the picture. But we watched the cycle races."

"You were there?" they asked.

"I was rowing for the United States. Coxed eights. Gold."

They nodded, then Monsieur Charpentier's eyes lit up.

"Jean-Luc will return tomorrow, Mme du Pléssis. It is a pity you could not meet him. He fought with the 1st French Army."

Katrine nodded, adding that they had a lot of work to do and that her guest had to report for duty. The war was not over.

"I am glad the Germans are gone," blustered Monsieur Charpentier. "They acted as if they owned our estate. We sent all the girls home to their own families. One of them was pregnant. It is a shame!"

They thanked the Charpentiers for the lunch and rose from the table. The couple gave them a case of Picard Shiraz from their cellar, as well as a case of Pinot Noir.

They arrived home in the late afternoon, exhausted after their excursion. Charles cranked up the phonograph and played some soothing music, a series of Chopin nocturnes. Katrine busied herself with reports and preparations for their next assignments. It involved help from Charles, maps of the region, ensuring the right paintings and sculptures went to the right owners. Charles closed his eyes, revelling in the peace that suffused him. They would do the work in the morning and the rest of the day was theirs.

Later they had something to eat. He helped prepare their meal which had a French name he didn't understand, but Katrine assured him it was edible. He'd noticed since his arrival a room opposite the kitchen. That door remained closed. He'd wondered about it and thought it could be Célestine's room. He didn't want to venture in there on his own, or ask Katrine about it, thinking that the impetus should come from her. When she was ready to tell him or invite him inside, she would.

They made tender love that night. It always fascinated him, her creamy skin, the rise of her bosom which he loved to trail with his fingers. Sometimes he felt he could just lick her body without stopping, suck on her nipples, his hand roaming all over her body, caressing until she was in a fevered state. At other times he simply lay spooned behind her, his hand covering her breast to lose himself eventually in sleep.

Over the next few days Katrine took him sightseeing, visiting museums, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe to see the inscriptions on the walls, down the Champs-Élysées, the _Moulin Rouge_. Opposite the _Moulin Rouge_ was the _La Place Blanche café_ . It was reserved for the exclusive use of German soldiers and their French escorts. Katrine told him that not so long ago, Nazi flags hung all over the cafe.

At The Louvre, he stood for a long time in front of the _Mona Lisa,_ thenpaused just as long in front of the _Venus de Milo._ During those minutes that he gazed at each artwork, Katrine left him alone to absorb the wonder of man's creativity, man's seemingly inexhaustible talent. He felt honoured to have the opportunity to see Paris through the eyes of a Parisienne.

They walked along the banks of the Seine. He showed her the bridge where he'd been shot. They strolled through the street where they'd seen the women being humiliated. At one point he recognised Stephané Marceau. He introduced her to Katrine, who told her she looked beautiful with her hair growing out nicely.

They sat at sidewalk bistros and enjoyed light lunches. Often she gave her little camera to a passer by to take pictures of the two of them.

On those days, Katrine wore dresses that looked so beautiful on her, it took his breath away. She would look at him with a quizzical expression and he'd pull her close and whisper that she made his heart melt. He felt inordinately proud to be walking next to her, to let people see they were a couple and nod their heads in approval. His heart would burn fiercely and he'd grip her hand tighter to him.

One day they had their first squabble, and over a minor issue. They'd visited Notre-Dame Cathedral.

"A Catholic cathedral, steeped in history," Katrine told him as they stood outside the church.

"You're not Catholic?" he asked.

"I was married to a Jew, remember? I do not align myself to any mainstream denomination."

"You don't believe? In God?"

"I am a scientist. Shall we leave it at that?"

"We're at odds, then. Unfortunately."

"Why is it unfortunate? Do we not each define our own destiny? To find within ourselves the qualities of love, respect, honour, selflessness - ?"

"Forget I said it. The less we speak about it, the better."

She'd pursed her lips, stood with her hands on her hips and glared at him. Katrine looked beautiful and angry. He tried to blot out that image of her. He was a religious man who believed in God. As kids they'd all marched with their mother to church, sitting in her favourite pew. He had no problem offering heartfelt prayers, especially over the dead bodies of his troops. He hadn't expected Katrine to take such an implacable stance.

"Joseph understood."

"And I don't?"

"We never brought up religion. Although I accepted that he pursued his."

He relented a little. She looked like she still wanted to bite his head off.

"Fine, then. As long as you accept that I am free to pursue my belief."

"Fine!" And Katrine stomped her pretty foot clad in a very pretty shoe. "Shall we go?"

"I'll drive," he said.

"What? And hand poor Clotilde over to you?"

"Oh, ye of little faith! What's wrong with that? They always were better handled by men."

He deftly warded off the hand poised to strike him, grabbed her handbag and burrowed for the keys. He walked to the Peugeot, got in the driver's seat and bellowed, "Are you coming?"

All the way to Katrine's home, there was a stony silence between them. Charles had memorised the routes and he was comfortable driving Clotilde. When they stopped outside her house, she'd stomped inside, banged the door in his face and locked her bedroom once he got inside.

He played a recording and sat on the couch. He thought absently that he should light the fireplace. It was getting colder in the evenings. Later he went to the kitchen and fixed sandwiches for them. He ate his, left hers on the table. Then he went back to the lounge and proceeded to light the fire. Once it was going, he sat back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth in the room.

He and Katrine had to navigate so many things, but it was important that they talked about it. It just threw him a bit that she did not believe in the power of a Higher Being. About half an hour later, he felt her weight next to him on the couch. She leaned over to kiss him on the lips. He felt an odd burning behind his eyelids. When he opened his eyes, she gazed at him.

"I do not want us to argue. I'm sure we can work things out."

He nodded, relieved that the ugly moments were over.

"I made sandwiches for you," he said.

"Thank you. I'll have it later. Right now, I need to kiss you."

Charles woke the next morning sensing instantly that Katrine wasn't in the bed. He switched on the bedside lamp, blinking when he looked at his wrist watch and saw it was already 0700. It was unusual for Katrine to be up before him. She liked to lie in, he liked to go out and jog.

Now he frowned when he didn't hear any noise from the kitchen or the bathroom. He shifted out of bed and quietly pulled on a robe Katrine had bought him on the first day when they'd returned from the Charpentiers. He needed to go to the bathroom and then fix something for breakfast. Katrine might have gone out, but then she would have told him.

When he returned from the bathroom, he heard a sound. Frowning, he padded towards the kitchen. She wasn't there. He heard a sob, then another and it came from the room opposite the kitchen. He moved across the passage and knocked softly. There was no response but the crying continued. Not so much crying but intermittent sobs.

So Charles quietly turned the knob and took one step inside. Indeed, a child's room as he'd suspected. A frilly style quilt covered the bed. Stuffed toys were stacked against the pillows. A music stand containing sheet music stood near the window where little butterflies hung on a string. Instead of a silver backed hair brush and combs and curlers, a violin and bow lay on the dressing table. On the walls he saw pictures of Katrine, Joseph, and a studio portrait of Célestine at about six years of age. Another photograph depicted the child playing the violin - a beautiful photograph that threw her in a half silhouette. The room was pretty in a little girl kind of way. Pretty and clean.

And on the bed looking at the portrait sat Katrine, tears streaming down her face.

"Katrine," he whispered her name as he reached for her. He sat down beside her and held her to him. She felt soft and deeply disconsolate as she buried her face against his chest and wept in earnest. As she had comforted him when he arrived at her home that first night, never speaking and just holding him, so he sat with Katrine and waited. From time to time he pressed his lips against her hair, caressed her arm. Mostly, he just held her.

He looked at Célestine's face, an open, smiling, pretty face, very like Katrine. He couldn't imagine this child being shot dead by Germans in an isolated field so far outside Paris. How terrified she must have been when she faced the soldier with the gun. What really happened there? he wondered. He remembered Katrine telling him the spot was near a railway line, that the men, women and children were taken to that clearing by truck. Were they transferred to a waiting cattle truck? Did the Germans simply shoot at anyone because they knew they could do so with impunity?

Katrine held a scruffy little teddy bear in her hand while she sobbed against him. It must be the one they had found in the field that day they were told where the bodies were found. Her hand was shaking as she pressed the little bear to her bosom. He felt close to tears himself.

He had no idea how long they sat like that, but at last Katrine stopped weeping. She sniffled a few times.

"I am sorry - "

"You should not ever be. She was your beloved little girl. You have a right to grieve."

"It's - it's her birthday today, you know?"

Finally, the answer to Katrine's distress, her continued mourning.

"September 4. How old would she have been today?"

"Nine."

He took his handkerchief and dabbed her wet cheeks, pressed her so that she lay on the bed and he settled himself next to her, with Célestine's soft toys all about their heads.

"What was she like?" he asked, emboldened by the way she was able to recover.

"She loved to play the violin, but also books. She was bright, always concerned about someone whom she saw in pain. She befriended people quickly. When Lamine was so sick, she tried talking to him until out of sheer desperation she started playing music for him. Whenever one of us was a bit down, she'd play. Of course, there were times she was stubborn - "

"Like someone I know," he interrupted, smiling at her.

"A lot like me, I think. She inherited Joseph's sense of fairness, of justice."

"Do you think she would have liked me?"

"Who knows? I think she would. It's the strength and dependability that exudes from you, _Charles_."

He was momentarily sad, thinking of Evan, his little boy at home waiting for him. After a short pause, he spoke again.

"Katrine..."

"Hmmm?"

"What were you doing when you were nine?"

"I was reciting the elements on the periodic table. I was going to be the next Madame Curie. I read every book on science and every novel not usually reserved for nine year olds. How about you?"

"At nine, my brother and I got into regular fights at school. He was not sick then."

"Were you a bully?"

"Hell, no! But we were often teased for looking different. Most of the kids were very fair with blonde hair, blue eyes, that kind of thing. Edward and I are tanned, with pitch black hair and black eyes. They teased us, called us Indians. My father would come to school and tan our hides for fighting like hooligans."

"But it stopped, yes?"

"Oh, yes. Later they were afraid of us and didn't bother us, especially after Edward contracted polio. He was not the only child in our school who had to walk with callipers. We also started rowing very early. I played every sport at elementary school, or at least I tried everything!"

"You are very strong, Charles. Your muscles are hard!"

They were quiet for a few minutes.

"Katrine..."

"Yes?"

"What would Célestine be doing had she lived?"

"Play the violin, of course. That was her primary occupation. That and reading, I suppose. Her father was teaching her piano as well. So I guess that's what she would have been busy doing right now, had she lived.

Charles noticed that Katrine was no longer so weepy, instead, had calmed down considerably. He turned on his side and looked at her.

"How good was she really, Katrine, playing the violin?"

Katrine was quiet a few seconds, mulling over his question.

"Do you know of the Canadian pianist Glenn Gould?" she asked him.

"Only that he is a kid genius on the piano. We listened to radio broadcasts. Edward would know more. But yes, the papers were always full of this musical prodigy."

"Well, Célestine, we believed, was a violin prodigy. Her father taught her most of her early years. She started at two-and-a-half and never stopped. He knew very soon that his expertise in tutoring her was insufficient, so we got her one of the top violin tutors in Paris. By the time she was taken from here, she was studying under Maestro Sargozy. By now she would have attended the Paris Conservatoire of Music."

Charlie was suddenly struck by an idea. He kissed Katrine briefly, then pulled her up.

"Come. Let's get dressed. We can have breakfast at one of those bistros."

"Will you tell me where we are going?"

"You'll see."

Charlie had a holy respect for cemeteries. He'd watched Winonah and Lansing being lowered into a grave. At Vidouville he'd stood by the grave of Cruikshank. Death certainly didn't care about age or standing. There were not as many trees here as in the Detroit cemetery, but the grounds proliferated with irises and lavender. A fragrance hung over the graves, the deep scent of lavender filling his nostrils.

They were standing at a single grave bearing a cross with two names - that of Joseph Eleazar Blumenthal and Célestine Héloise Blumenthal. They'd gone out and bought flowers to put on the grave. Charlie chose a peace rose with a long stem and placed it on the grave. He felt sad. He had seen death close up, he would see many more. He was due on the front in three days.

Katrine was more centred than earlier this morning. She'd wept her tears, for she was glad that she could weep again after she'd closed her heart to sadness. Now she bent down and touched the grave. Perhaps quietly speaking to Joseph too, but Charles thought, mainly to Célestine. He wondered what she was telling her little girl, wondered if she said something about her life with another man.

"I met this man, Célestine, who fills my life. Please, please be happy for me..."

Charles heard Katrine speak and his heart burned with love. He wished he could have met Célestine, really wished it. Maybe tell her how he loved her mother with his whole heart and soul, how he would do anything to keep on protecting her, how he would love to introduce her to his little boy and perhaps, perhaps, have another little child to adore.

Later, Katrine stood a few yards from Charles where he knelt by the graves of his fallen comrades. They were simple mounds with crosses adorned with wild flowers. On some of the crosses hung the helmets of his departed troops. She felt his tears, for had she not wept unceasingly in the beginning when her loved ones were taken from her? In those early days until they came with official confirmation of their deaths, her sorrow had been raw, elemental.

Now she could see how hard it was for Charles to contain the pain of his loss. She knew that his division had been together since 1940, time in which he had gotten to know his troops very well. They shared a closeness, a camaraderie from long association, and when some of them were killed in battle, it might as well be that he had lost a limb or family member.

She stepped closer to read some of the names. Staff-sergeant Felix Holding, Sgt Ian Baxter who played the guitar so beautifully, Private James Wainwright who would have become a tenor singing in the great opera houses. She was sad that talent such as his men had, was gone forever. That thought took her to the many people locked away in concentration camps. She knew that a number of Jews had been members of some of Europe's top orchestras. Would they be languishing in camps, their talent gone forever?

When he rose to his feet, she sighed deeply as she stepped into his arms, leaning her head against him. He squeezed her gently and kissed the top of her head. Katrine frowned when he released her, her wordless question answered when Charles saluted his fallen troops.

She had begun to walk towards the car. When he caught up with her, she asked, "Where to now?"

"One of the boulangeries in the Champs-Élysées."

"Huh?"

"Don't worry so!" he said in French, to which she once again raised an elegant eyebrow. Charles was learning, and learning quite fast!

"That one," Charles said as he pointed to a cake with pink icing, adorned with little roses. "What do you think, sweetheart?"

Who was she to disagree when Charles so obviously brimmed with eagerness?

"Perfect!"

"Good. Tell the kind lady we require nine candles on the cake."

To which Katrine repeated the instruction to the surprised attendant. Soon the cake was boxed. They left the bakery and blinked when they stepped into the sun. Katrine laughed and he thought how bright and without pain her laughter sounded, so different from her sadness this morning.

That night they had dinner which he cooked and afterwards he took the cake into Célestine's room where Katrine carefully placed her daughter's violin in its case. Charles placed the cake on the dresser and lit the candles.

"Happy birthday, my sweet Célestine," Kathryn murmured.

"Happy birthday, daughter of the woman I love," Charles said.

They blew out the candles together.

That night they made love with abandon and didn't stop until they both eventually fell into an exhausted sleep.

Charles drew in his breath sharply. Katrine wore a short-sleeved dress he could swear was the colour of angelic yellow. It clung to her bodice. On the shoulders, as well as the main swathe between her breasts the fabric was adorned with embroidered inlays. He'd once seen Winonah wearing something similar and he made her swear to tell the boys her big brother was waiting to beat the crap out of them if they looked a tad too long at her.

Now he couldn't stop staring at Katrine. Her hair was curled, and held in style by little clever pins and combs.

"You're staring, _Charles_."

He swallowed hard. He'd never seen her in this dress before. It was striking, enhancing her femininity. Heeled black shoes with tiny yellow clips on the sides completed the picture.

"You're not looking too badly yourself, though I'd have to say you were in uniform every day."

"Do not mock me, my love. Now, where are we going?"

"Take walks, short drives. I've packed lunch and snacks and a bottle of the Shiraz wine. Are you coming?"

"Now who am I to say no to such a lovely lady?" he said smiling.

"Where did you get your dimples?"

"My dad, when he was not-serious. True story."

They walked hand in hand along the boulevards, found a little picnic spot on the banks of the Seine and enjoyed lunch while passers-by stared at them.

"I've got something for you, Charles," she said when she took a sip of her wine.

"Oh?"

She fished a book from her handbag and gave it to him. He read the title.

"French Phrase Book. That would be a lot of help. Sometimes I have a hard time understanding what you mean when we make love!"

"I'm glad you like it."

"Thanks. I'll carry it with me always."

"I do not think it can compete with _Caesar's Gallic Wars_!"

Katrine laughed brightly. He could only stare and when he found his tongue, said simply, "I love you, Katrine."

Much later they strolled down the Champs-Élysées, window shopping to their hearts' content. At one shop called " _L_ _e désir de coeur_ " they stopped and gazed through the window at the items on display. When Charles glanced at Katrine, she was gazing longingly at a particularly beautiful jewel.

"Katrine?"

"Hmmm...?"

"I am going to do something totally crazy. Want to join me?"

Her eyes widened and her face broke into a bright smile.

"Oh, yes!"

It was 0500 on the morning of September 7. Katrine stood in her lounge in her nightie and gown. While lying in bed, she'd heard the front door open and close several times. She had dreaded this day since Charles had arrived in Paris. Now it was here and very real. Her heart was pounding and she tried to suppress the rising fear she'd experienced since she'd woken up.

He'd already packed and stacked his bags in the jeep. Charles was in full battle dress, the insignia of the Red Diamonds, the division's badge of courage, on his left upper arm. He wore his helmet and his rifle slung over his shoulder.

He looked every inch the armed warrior - suddenly distant, unreachable. His face had again become hard and unforgiving, the way she remembered from their first meeting. Since then everything had changed. They had fallen in love. If she had seen him three years ago walking along the Champs-Élysées, she would not have known him. Now she couldn't imagine a day without him.

This unsmiling man in front of her - was it the same man who made her beg in bed for his touches, who would sometimes shed tears because their lovemaking was so beautiful? Was it the same man who held her the morning of Célestine's birthday and waited until she became centred again? Was it the same man who'd stood in front of the _Mona Lisa_ in the Louvre, looking so raw and vulnerable?

And in a blinding second, Katrine realised that she had lost him. No, she had to amend that. She did not really lose him, she would never lose him, of that she was certain. Captain Charles Anson Miller, soon to join up with his division again, had simply packed all that was emotional, emotive, vulnerable, touching, loving, forgiving and compassionate and packaged them neatly behind the mask of discipline and duty to his cause.

No, he was still there, just hidden behind a mask.

Charles did not speak. She did not take a step forward.

"I know you are not very good with goodbyes, _Charles._ We've spoken about it. I know the risks. I always have." Katrine bit back a sob. "Wherever you are, my love, I will pray for your safety."

She saw a nerve in his jaw twitch, knew he was thinking of the day they'd argued about religion. Yet now, how could she not ask God to take care of his beloved son?

Charles clicked his heels and saluted stiffly.

A moment later he was gone.

END CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I appreciate your comments!


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: This chapter sees more of Daisy Ginsberg, the Frenchwoman who took "Zannah" under her wing. I really do appreciate all comments and hope very much that you'll offer reviews on this chapter. We're building up to the climax of the story!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 **Detroit - September 1944**

At ten a.m. the telephone rang in the home of Althea Miller-Wachinski. She'd just read a story to little Evan. The moment he heard the sound, he pointed to the kitchen where the phone was located and said, "Mama, phone!"

Isaac was at his surgery seeing to hordes of patients. If the call was for him, she'd have to refer them to his surgery number.

"Mama!"

"Okay, shush, Evan, I heard you the first time!" she said as she quickly made her way to the kitchen, Evan following her.

She picked up the receiver. "This is the Miller-Wachinski residence. How may I help you?"

A female voice answered. "Mrs Althea Miller? Will you hold the line for a transatlantic call from Captain Charles Miller?"

Althea gave a sharp gasp, clutching her bosom because her heart was beginning to beat erratically. She took a few deep breaths to still the raging excitement in her. It was the first time Charles had called since he'd left for France.

"Mrs Miller?"

"Thank you, yes!"

Althea looked down at a fidgeting Evan who raised his hand to hold the receiver. "It's your Uncle Charles!" she whispered, covering the receiver with her free hand.

"Papa?"

"Yes!"

"Hello?"

Her son's voice sounded like a balm from heaven. His voice, always so masculine, strong, forceful dropped to a softer tone, loving. Althea closed her eyes and murmured wordlessly, "Thank God."

"Charles! It is wonderful to hear your voice!"

"Good to hear yours too, Mama. How are you all?"

"I am in the best health I've ever been, thanks to Isaac - "

"Whose first name is Henry."

"Yes, though I call him Isaac. I'm only fifty two, you know, and not over the hill by a long chalk."

"How is the good doctor doing, Mama?"

"Very well, indeed. He's at his at his surgery right now. It's a pity he isn't here to talk to you!"

Charles gave a low chuckle. Althea remembered how he'd threatened to sock Isaac on the jaw if he made her unhappy. Truth was, Isaac did made her happy. Charles spoke again.

"Edward and Lucy and the kids?"

"All good. Edward is now full professor. Little Charlie keeps looking at pictures of his uncle and Winonah is almost as wild as Charlie. They give poor Lucy a real hard time, but she copes! They are all really doing well."

But Althea's initial joy turned to concern for her middle child. They had seen the newsreels about the fierce fighting in France, tanks rolling through the towns, buildings collapsing under heavy firing. The country had been liberated, thanks to the Allied Forces. There had been much bloodshed and many American and British troops had died. Charlie had briefed them that he couldn't divulge any information about his troops' movements. It kept them in the dark and it distressed her even further not knowing what was happening to him.

She couldn't keep a soft sob from her voice.

"Are you okay, Mama?"

"Charlie, son, how are you holding up?"

There was a pause before he responded. "Just a minor injury here and there. Nothing serious. I lost a third of my company during the Paris combats. It is war, Mama. There are always casualties. Let Edward also know I'm okay, please?"

"You sound so sad. I am sorry to hear that."

Then Althea bent down and, forgetting to cover the receiver, spoke to Evan. "Will you stand still, Evan?"

"Evan is there with you, Mama?" Charlie's voice suddenly sounded more excited. Althea could imagine Charlie smiling, dimples forming in his cheeks, so like their father.

"Oh, yes. I read him stories every night. He's getting as hectic as little Charlie and Winonah. He wants to say hi."

She held the receiver to the boy's ear. "Say 'hello' to Papa."

"Hello, Papa. I am big."

"Hello, my big boy. Remember me?"

"Uncle Charlie!"

"Yes! How are you doing?"

"Me-ma give me porridge. I grow big and - and strong!"

"Attaboy! Give the phone to Me-ma, okay?"

Immediately Evan ran around the kitchen table, touching each chair as he passed.

"So Charles, tell me about Katrine..."

There was a pause. The line was crackling. Althea waited.

"She's beautiful. In fact, I'm calling from her home..."

Althea raised an eyebrow and curved her mouth into an "-O-".

"Oh?" she managed after she could recover from her surprise.

"I love her, Mama."

"Oh, son..."

She could hear he sounded strained as if he didn't want to continue speaking about Katrine any further. What he'd said was enough.

"Please, could we hold off this conversation 'til I write you? I have to go. Give my regards to the others. Kiss Evan for me."

Ten minutes later Althea sat at the kitchen table with Evan still running around it. She was overjoyed to hear from Charles, but what he shared was not nearly enough for her. She wanted to know more, about the injuries he hinted at, but especially about Katrine.

Only two days ago, Edward had called to tell her Charlie was safe in a town called St. Clair, that he had found Katrine. Then Edward had said something quite startling. He thought Charlie was in love with this Katrine because he wrote so much about her in his letter. Edward could sense it and said that Charlie had a very high regard for Katrine and that he liked her very much. Charlie had said as much in the letter to him and he'd sounded extremely upbeat.

Now her heart ached for her son all over again. Charlie had suffered when he lost Lucy, even though he eventually accepted that Lucy no longer loved him. It was the way they had hidden the truth from him that enraged Charles so much. She'd thought at the time that they had done the right thing to wait until he returned from Fort McClellan. She had bled with her son and prayed that he would one day find true happiness.

True happiness.

He said he loved Katrine. His voice sounded so warm and confident that she believed him. What then of his future? She was always so afraid that he'd die on the battleground. Would Katrine love him enough to understand that he had a duty to his country, to his cause, that he was a warrior through and through, to ensure the safety of those troops under his command? Did Katrine love him enough to understand that one day, God willing, he'd return to his country and make a life here? What, Althea wondered, if Katrine could never bring herself to follow Charles and leave her country?

She loved her son and she vowed that she'd love the woman who would make him happy.

Charles and Katrine, Althea thought, had more complications now than he and Lucy had ever had. With Lucy, things were uncomplicated. He'd come home from the war, marry Lucy, settle down and have kids. And that would be that, as her dear departed Henry Miller would have said. With Katrine, she could see the impediments that could harm their relationship. Charles, she knew, thrived on barriers he'd deliberately put in his own way and then fight as hard as he could to jump them all, no matter how high they were.

Just that thought alone made her think that Charles and his Katrine would make it through this war.

So Althea Miller-Wachinski scooped up the still running Evan, put him gently on her lap and then told him that she was looking forward to meeting Katrine du Pléssis whom his papa loved.

 **Boston October 1944**

Edward Miller was surprised to receive another letter from France so soon after he'd received one from Charles. Then he frowned when he looked at the return address and saw "Rue Evremonde, St Clair". He lifted an eyebrow, looking at Lucy who couldn't hold her curiosity and threatened to grab the letter from him.

"Not Charles's handwriting, obviously. And, I don't think this could be Katrine du Pléssis's handwriting either."

"No idea who might be writing you from St Clair, France?"

"Other than Charles? No. No idea."

"Come on, open it!"

They were in the lounge, relieved the children had finally been coaxed into napping after a morning's boisterous play. Lucy was glad for once because they exhausted her. Now she wanted to relax while her husband read the letter aloud. When he opened the envelope and took out the letter, a photograph fell to the floor. Lucy quickly bent to pick it up, because Edward was balancing awkwardly on his crutches.

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed as she looked at the photo. "Edward, she is _exquisite_!"

"Who?" he asked.

"Katrine du Pléssis in a white tuxedo! And oh! Isn't Charles most dashing in dress uniform? They make a perfect couple!" she gushed, standing next to him so he could look at the photo too.

"So this is Katrine..." Edward said softly. "They look like they attended some celebration, if Charles was in dress uniform."

"Read the letter, please, before the kids wake up!" Lucy urged, barely able to contain her excitement.

 _Dear Mr Miller_

 _I hope you do not mind that I have asked Katrine du Pléssis to furnish me with your address. She does not know of my writing to you at this point in time, although she did look rather askance at me when I asked her for it. I told her it was for emergencies. I can assure you this missive is not an emergency._

 _My name is Lamine Bhoutayeb. I was a soldier who fought in the 14th Senegalese Regiment in France. Katrine and her husband cared for me when I was injured after my regiment had been wiped out by the Germans. The couple offered me a place in their home in 1940 and we have been friends ever since. After Katrine's husband and daughter died, we moved to St. Clair where she took over the Coeur de Lion, a restaurant that had belonged to her great uncle._

 _She has no family in France that I know of and would be quite alone if not for the friends she has in the town. She draws her strength from them and they respect and honour her leadership._

 _Many things happened during and after the liberation of St. Clair in which your brother Captain Charles Miller played a pivotal role. The company of his regiment remained in St Clair a mere ten days, enough time in which I suspect your brother and Katrine formed a serious attachment. War, I believe, is the cause of these quick affections and declarations of love and loyalty. I know that both Katrine and Captain Miller would not go headlong into something as important as exchanging vows of love. For that, Captain Miller is far too decisive and commanding, possessing strength and integrity. That is why I believe it is serious._

 _I hope that Katrine herself will write you sometime and tell you of your brother's heroic deeds in our town. Did you know he shot dead a German officer at two hundred paces while that officer held Katrine as a human shield? I think Captain Miller would not tell you that himself. He tends to play down his role in heroic acts._

 _The photograph I included of Katrine and Captain Miller was taken on the day a young couple was joined in marriage in the Coeur de Lion. He walked the bride up the aisle as her father had been taken by the Germans to do slave labour in their armament factories._

 _The regiment has left St Clair to advance to Paris where they will liberate that city. I have no doubt that soon France will be free and I can call it my home too._

 _My concern is for my dear friend. There exists so much uncertainty when one is on active duty in a war which, as you know, has already claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, prisoners of war, inmates of concentration camps and civilians. Please keep them both in your thoughts and prayers. Katrine has suffered much and deserves all the happiness that God in his mercy bestows on her._

 _My kind regards to your family._

 _Lamine Bhoutayeb._

Lucy sat down, tears streaming down her cheeks as Edward read the letter in his well modulated voice. She felt an instant empathy with Katrine, for had she not herself waited anxiously for Charlie to write or come home? It was always the uncertainty that got to her. Now she prayed that Katrine would be stronger than she, Lucy could ever be and wait for her loved one to come home to her.

"Tears, Lucy?" Edward asked as he eased himself next to her on the couch and stroked her cheek.

"I hope everything will work out for them. I really do!"

"If it does, they will have to navigate new minefields - "

"What do you mean?"

"Katrine is French, once married to a Jew. She is also a scientist and academic. Maybe she doesn't believe in God. Would she leave the country of her birth and follow the man she loves to his homeland?"

"Things will work out. They always do!" she said, her spirits lifting. "Call Mama and tell her of the letter and the photo. No, we can drive to Detroit and take it ourselves. The kids will be happy to see Mama. We must frame the picture. Oh, and then - "

By which time Edward had lifted his hand and cried "Halt!"

"What?"

"Lucy, my love, we will _fly_ to Detroit for the Thanksgiving weekend. Then we can frame the picture and give it to Mama. She'd love to have it, don't you think? Meanwhile, I will phone her and tell her something about what Lamine Bhoutayeb wrote. Satisfied?"

"Oh, yes! That will do very well! I love you, Edward Aaron Miller!"

 **University of Paris - October 1944**

Katrine left the science faculty in high spirits. After she'd first lost her post as lecturer and researcher in 1940, the university had had to close. The Germans had no doubt wanted to eliminate the heretics, liberals, resistance fighters, radicals and other truth-seekers spawned by universities. Katrine shook her head mentally.

Once Hitler powered into the leadership, the Oppressor had succeeded in creating a veneer of benevolence in which men like Petain soon believed, along with the general populace of the city. Vast amounts of money, time and expertise were spent to ensure that the propaganda machine was kept running to deceive the people while Germany committed all manner of atrocities. In the resistance, they had a vague view of the real damage that was done. Closing the university was one way in which they could curtail the possibility of uprisings.

With France now liberated, the university could resume its many academic programmes. At the time when Katrine lost her post she'd been devastated, unable to believe that she could be treated like that. Now she was happy to be reinstated.

It had been a chance she'd taken to seek an audience with the Dean of the Faculty of Science, since she'd begun to believe that the letter she received through the hands of Lucien Blériot could have been a trick, rubberstamped by his Nazi cohorts. He'd wanted to make life very difficult for her and used every means at his disposal. When she'd broken off her engagement, she'd unwittingly unleashed a tyrant and devious jackal who'd been very nice before. She was glad he'd died, killed by none other than Lamine.

"Your place has been reserved, Dr. du Pléssis. You will rejoin our research team on 1 November. We have a second date, 1 February, if you wish to start later - "

"Please, as soon as I can. That would suit me, Professor. It would be better..."

Her voice had trailed off and Professor Fournier had picked instantly at her reserve.

"I understand that you lost your husband and daughter, Dr. du Pléssis. I am indeed sorry."

She'd nodded. Professor Fournier had lost a beloved son in the war. Life was never fair, she thought.

"Thank you. I am glad to be back, to work with students again."

"Once you join the research team, I am sure you will find it immensely exhilarating. We are on the brink of great discoveries, Katrine, of which France will be proud! _G_ _randes découvertes_!"

Her name had slipped out and she'd smiled, relieved that it signified a sense of familiarity. She'd given a sigh of satisfaction, said goodbye to Professor Fournier and then left the office.

Outside, clouds had gathered overhead. It would rain soon. Paris was bracing for the winter months, and although not quite winter yet, it was freezing. She shivered as she wrapped her coat tighter and made her way to her car. She wanted to get home, light the fire in the great fireplace and relax with René Barjavel's latest novel _Le Voyageur Imprudent._

"If I voyaged back in time," she mused, "and killed my father's father's father before he had children, where would I be?"

For a moment she pondered on the paradox of time the novel expounded, then shook her head. "Time paradoxes...they give me a headache."

She thought for a moment that she heard Charles whisper over her shoulder, "And then where would _I_ be? But, Katrine, you go ahead and finish the novel. It's good for future explorations. Who knows, man might walk on the moon one day."

So she continued reading until her eyes drooped. Tomorrow, she decided, she would spend the day preparing lectures and writing up notes on some experiments she'd thought about the last number of weeks.

She missed Charles like her very breath; taking her post at the university again would would keep her mind occupied. She needed to work, to stimulate her brain again in the sphere of physics and chemistry.

Lamine had visited and left with several cases of estate wine of the Charpentiers and the Evremondes. He and Solange kept strict account of the funds generated by the _Coeur de Lion_. She had enough money and could live in reasonable ease in the city. Charles, she'd also discovered, seemed to be well funded, and not only from his army pay. She'd laughed that first night they were together when he showed her his money pouch, one of several tied on the soldiers' belts.

"I have my own car back home. A Cadillac waiting for me."

Katrine had no idea where Charles happened to be right now. That part of his work remained classified and only newsreels kept those interested up to date on the war effort. However, she had not been to the cinemas since Charles had left, so kept her ear plastered to the radio. She was hoping to get a letter from him soon, though that seemed unlikely. Right now, the Allied Forces were in the Alsace-Lorraine region about which she had read in this morning's paper. Further than that she was blind. Charlie had written her address and telephone number down. She desperately hoped he'd tell her again not to worry, that everything would be alright .

Her face reflecting the glow of the embers, the book forgotten on her lap, she stared into the fireplace , idly twirling the simply wrought band on her ring finger.

 **St. Clair - October 1944**

The area surrounding the _Coeur de Lion_ was abuzz. People had begun to congregate in the street near the home of Berry and Brigitte Beaumont, who lived close to the restaurant. They were curious, concerned and excited that they were to be witnesses of an auspicious event, the birth of a child. Not that such an event was an exception in the town, but Berry had stood in the town square and loudly declared his romantic alliance with the fiery Brigitte. Everyone knew they were cousins, everyone knew they'd fought like madmen since they could both walk. Everyone knew that Brigitte had once had an American boyfriend who happened to have been in St Clair back in July. Everyone knew that Brigitte had been deceived by a German and so they felt that it could not be helped that she carried his child. They all understood for Brigitte was as fierce a Resistance fighter as any man in St. Clair.

And everyone was surprised to hear that Brigitte and her cousin Bertrand Beaumont were going to marry.

Only three months ago, Brigitte and Berry married, although they knew that the child Brigitte carried was fathered by that despicable German, Heinz Welthagen, may his soul rot in hell. Whenever someone mentioned Welthagen's name, he followed it up by spitting furiously on the ground.

Everyone had heard Berry's insistence that the child Brigitte carried was his. They thought becoming a father and loving the infant sired by another in such heinous circumstances, to be praiseworthy and deserved the highest honour St. Clair could bestow on him. They were very glad that Welthagen - another furious flying of spit into the ground - was dead. They waited anxiously, debating whether the baby would be a boy or a girl. A girl, some said, would give her Mama endless problems when she reached adolescence and would want to run off with boys to the next town. Some remembered that Brigitte had also, when she was eighteen, wanted to follow that _foreigner_ to America. What a good thing she didn't. She, they declared, was a Frenchwoman through and through who would die defending her country.

Those who said it would be a boy were apprehensive that it might resemble that detestable Welthagen - a furious flying spit on the ground - because then poor Brigitte would not be allowed to forget the man who fathered her child. A boy, some said, could follow in his father's - that be Berry Beaumont - footsteps and cycle for France. There was no doubt that he would become an Olympic racer one day and win the world's premier cycling race, the _Tour de France_.

And so the conjecture carried on until old _Grand-pére_ Beaumont gently shooed them away from the door. Brigitte, he said, needed time to breathe at least.

"Of course, we shall give her time, Monsieur Beaumont. All the time she needs!"

"Thank you!" he cried, "now go home."

They complied by stepping back only five yards. _Grand-pére_ Beaumont flung his arm in the air in a gesture of frustration, mumbling as he closed the door behind him again.

Inside, Brigitte was quietly anticipating the birth of her baby. Berry had not wanted to let go of her hand, even when the midwife explained to him that Brigitte was not going anywhere for at least eighteen years. But he was adamant and by his wife's side he sat. _Grand-mère_ had insisted that she assist the midwife because she had, after all, brought Brigitte and Berry into the world. Who could argue against a woman who had bathed both children in a tub in her home?

"It is very near her time, Berry," said the midwife. "Just a minute. Brigitte, will you breathe?"

"Please, breathe for the nurse," cried Berry who could not stand that his wife was huffing and puffing unnaturally, to his mind. Did they not huff and puff while he made love to her in their bed? Brigitte had assured him that he would not kill their unborn son - she was convinced it would be a boy - and that they should both enjoy the huffing without feeling guilty?

"What do you think I am doing?" she spat inelegantly as she heaved and gave a huge huff. The baby slipped out of her. Berry had eyes the size of golf balls as the infant's cry rent the air.

"Brigitte, my love, we have a boy!"

The announcement was made outside the house by _Grand-pére_. There was huge applause when _Grand-pére_ said it was a boy. They were very glad indeed, especially those who had been firmly in the boy-camp. When the applause died down, the people began moving towards their own homes. The excitement was over. Tomorrow someone else would give birth, or someone would die, get married, work in the butcher's, bake French loaves and croissants for the _boulangerie_ and life would go on as if nothing happened.

When the baby was cleaned and wrapped in a blanket, Brigitte, exhausted by the hours of labour, looked tiredly at her husband.

"He looks like us, Berry. Our black hair and dark eyes. _Je suis très heureux_!"

"What shall we call him, my dearest love, mother of my baby boy?"

Brigitte thought at that moment, as indeed, she had thought often, of a tall, tanned, black-haired army captain who had saved St. Clair and whom she admired even though she didn't like him at first. He was a great warrior. Wherever he was now, she prayed God be with him.

" _Charles_ Beaumont. _Charles_ Bertrand Beaumont."

In the middle of November when baby _Charles_ was about two weeks old, Lamine and Solange exchanged wedding vows in the _Coeur de Lion,_ which was fast becoming a wedding venue for young couples.

 **Buchenwald - December 1944**

In Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim's quarters, Daisy Ginsberg stood a few feet away from him and looked at the floor, not daring to make eye contact. She was not afraid of him, not really, but something happened not long after Zannah had fallen so ill last year. She had become more and more aware of him and feared she might lose her heart to him. He'd acted on the doctor's instruction to keep her in his quarters to care for the sick child.

She had been glad then, knowing that she was spared from Götze and his gang raping her, making her look on while they raped young children, ordering her to keep the child down as they ravaged her body.

Although that did not happen very often, for Götze seemed wary of Von Wangenheim whom he outranked, and Johann Gaertner, she'd tried desperately not to weep or show any kind of emotion. So she'd smile, even laugh when the child lay close to unconsciousness after the act. When she'd return to the barracks carrying the distraught child, or walking with the young girl, she'd wipe their tears, tell them not to cry much, for one day, it would be all over, that they must stay alive.

She had never stopped praying for the children in the camp. So she confided one evening in Herr Von Wangenheim who threatened to storm into Götze's quarters and shoot him. She'd had managed to contain him, telling him that because of him, Zannah was still alive and pure. She knew of a few women in the barracks who would be willing to help protect the children. They knew of a barracks deep in the woods of Buchenwald which the camp commanders ignored mostly because it was too far for them to tread on foot, especially in the deep snow. She told him not to worry, they would know what to do. All he had to do was pretend he didn't know anything.

One morning, Götze had walked calmly into his quarters while Zannah was with Maestro Dobrinksi in Gaertner's house. Götze never showed his anger, but she could see how it simmered beneath the surface when he confronted Von Wangenheim.

"My pleasure with little Jewish girls has been curtailed, Von Wangenheim. Do you by any chance have anything to do with it?"

Götze had lazily lit a French cigarette and blew the smoke in Von Wangenheim's face.

But Von Wangenheim was an aristocrat and it was his bearing that angered Götze. Von Wangenheim had often used his contacts in high places to get what he wanted. It made men like Götze and his cohorts simmer with jealousy. They could not touch him, because there was nothing they could really accuse him of, especially of being a traitor to the Reich.

"You and I both know that investigations into the camp's conditions and those activities of certain camp commanders are under way. Why do you even come here and complain about your so-called privileges when you know Allied Forces are fast advancing into Germany" Do not exacerbate your own culpability by continuing it."

"You are as guilty, Von Wangenheim," Götze blustered, and although the wind had been taken out of his sails, she knew he would stop at nothing to continue his corruption. He'd left in a huff, not daring to threaten Von Wangenheim.

Herr von Wangenheim had turned to her as the door slammed, and said, "I am prepared to accept the consequences, whatever they may be."

His eyes had been bleak that day, yet she could also detect a sense of victory when he'd spoken again.

"The girls are safe, Daisy?" he'd asked.

"Yes, Herr Von Wangenheim. We are not to tell you where they are hidden."

"Yes, that was my instruction. Then I can say with all honesty that I do not know what happened to them, that they could have died of malnutrition and privation, others frozen to death. The children always must be protected."

A flash of pain had crossed his attractive features. She could not admire him more than she had in those minutes. From right under the noses of the camp Commandant and other German personnel, Herr Oberleutant Helmut von Wangenheim orchestrated the so-called disappearance of girls and some small boys from Buchenwald. He was a German to be admired.

From afar, Helmut's voice penetrated Daisy's conscious.

"Did you hear me, Daisy?"

"I heard you, Herr von Wangenheim."

"Call me Helmut. Please."

She couldn't look up, couldn't bear to see the compassion in his eyes. Her husband was now dead. He had been dead since 1942 when he'd been forced by the German government to work as slave labour in their armaments factories. Now, Helmut von Wangenheim brought her the official document stating that Victor Emmanuel Ginsberg had died in the factory.

In the beginning, after she'd been raped in the camp, there had not been a day that she didn't think of Victor, knowing that his fate too was certain death. He was not going to survive the slave labour. After a year, memories of him had begun to fade as she fought desperately to keep alive, for her own sake and for a little girl who in turn had become her saviour. It lessened the longing for her own child who'd died along with Celestine's father. Now the news of Victor's death was acknowledged by a simple nod from her.

For something else had happened in Daisy Ginsberg's life, and that person was standing right in front of her, asking that she call him by his name. Her heart thundered and she wrung her hands in nervousness. From the day she had been allowed to live in his house, she had been acutely aware of him. She'd tried desperately to shut away any thought that she could love someone other than her husband who had died. Those first nights she lived in his house, she had expected him to bed her like Götze and other officers had. She was nothing but a vessel of lust for them and somehow she'd expected Helmut Von Wangenheim to exact some kind of payment for looking after the child.

After they had cleaned and shaved Zannah's head to rid her of the infection, she'd been made comfortable in Herr von Wangenheim's bed and had drifted immediately off to sleep.

"You are to share the bed with her," he'd instructed when Daisy had given him a querying look. "I shall sleep on the couch inside."

She had begun to take off her dress in front of him because he'd given her such a pensive look. He was a soldier. She would service him as gratitude for saving her too.

" _Gott im Himmel_! What are you doing?"

His anger arrested her movement and she dropped the skirt of her dress.

"You must fuck me. I will serve you every night, Herr von Wangenheim."

"Daisy Ginsberg, listen to me! I am not those dogs who call themselves officers of the Reich. You owe me nothing, is that clear?"

When she did not reply, he repeated, "Is that clear?"

She'd nodded mutely. Herr Oberleutnant von Wangenheim had never touched her since she first came to live in his house. He had not touched her at all.

She admired him for his courage to stand against his comrades, admired his inherent goodness, his refusal to play the same games as the others.

Now his eyes were pleading.

"Look at me, please, Daisy."

She lifted her head slowly to look at him. She saw in his eyes what he wanted of her. It was not the look of depravity, sick lust or simple sexual lust without honour. It was a look so wondrous, so impossible to absorb that she didn't want to hope. She remained wary. He stepped forward to take her trembling hands in his. His eyes bore into hers, forcing her to maintain contact.

"I am not like the others."

"I know...Helmut."

Only then a smile formed, breaking the tension in his face. Yet he sensed something holding her back.

"You have concerns," he said softly.

She couldn't stand his kind-heartedness, his decency. She tried to measure him against his debauched colleagues, that he be like them, but failed. He had been good to her from the start, this handsome, blond German officer with the shocking blue eyes that looked at her with such tenderness. She couldn't stand his compassion whenever she was forced to service Götze and she'd return in the early hours of the morning, watching her as she passed the couch to his room where Zannah slept. So Daisy fought the attraction in the only way she knew how, in a craven attempt at belittling herself. Her eyes stung with heated tears, yet she refused to give in to them.

"I am a whore, Von Wangenheim, nothing more! My body does not belong to me. Those nights I am away from Zannah, I am fucked by Götze, and some nights his friends join in. You know that! I have to pretend to enjoy it, you hear me? There is not a shred of decency in what they do to me. Sometimes I dream, I dream of my poor Victor. I try to close myself off from the terror that surrounds me. I do not hear, I do not speak, never cry out in pain, although the other me who is being ravaged answer all they want, laugh, joke, drink until I'm so drunk I give them everything. But inside, I weep. That is my life since I have been assigned to Buchenwald where every soldier and officer has whored me. You cannot...want me. I am not worthy - "

He gripped her slender shoulders and shook her. She didn't dare look at him. She knew what she felt for Helmut von Wangenheim. To even dare entertain thoughts that any man outside of the camp would want her for herself, for her intellect was insupportable.

She met his gaze, so intent, daring, flinching when she saw the look in his eyes.

"I...am damaged, Helmut."

She was unable to stop a single tear from rolling down her cheek.

"I am in love with you, Daisy Ginsberg. I have loved you since that night you brought a sick child to me and refused to let her die. Zannah is not your daughter, yet you care for her as if she were your very own little girl . You are worthy, as every woman who puts others' needs before her own is worthy, do you understand? I love your courage, your determination to do whatever it takes to survive in this hell hole and protect a child you call your own. I have seen you step in front of Zannah and offer yourself to a soldier in order to protect her. I call that bravery. How could I not admire and love you? Tell me!"

"I can not love you..." she murmured, her resistance feeble against the onslaught of his impassioned words.

 _"Gott im Himmel!"_ he rasped as he pulled her to him. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you do not love me. Look! Please..."

Daisy couldn't see Helmut for the tears that swam her in eyes. She tried to smile but her face remained stiff until his hand gently wiped the dampness from her cheek. She gripped his hand and kissed his palm, remaining like that for interminable minutes.

She gazed up at him, a German officer not like the others, a man not like the others, someone who would watch over her like she had dreamed since the day she had entered Buchenwald.

"Whatever happens, Daisy Ginsberg, if we both should survive this war and its consequences, I am yours to love forever..."

Then suddenly, right at that moment, they heard a shot ring out.

"Now, begin from the adagio, Zannah," said Maestro Dobrinski. "Five bars. Good...ease into the third...good...stop!"

Zannah stopped instantly, her bow poised in mid-air. Then she waited for Maestro to speak.

"Gently stroke your bow across the strings, remember?" He pointed to a bar on the sheet music. "Right here it is a pianissimo. Remember?"

Zannah stroked the strings in a pianissimo so sweet that Maestro Dobrinski had tears in his eyes.

"Good. Good. Continue and follow through..."

Zannah nodded, then resumed play, taking the adagio through to its end. Simeon Dobrinski nodded appreciatively as Zannah played. He tapped his foot in the tempo she determined. It sounded much, much better, he thought. No, he amended, it sounded sublime.

He had lived in Krakow teaching adult students at the conservatoire. This child - he prayed to God that she survived the conditions in the camp - was genial. Her playing was phenomenal, equal to any top student he had tutored over the years. He was glad that Oberleutnant Von Wangenheim had taken the child under his wing. There had been so many stories of how he used the child for his own depraved lusts. What he saw in front of him told him perhaps another story.

Simeon had been in barrack 4A when von Wangenheim had entered for his inspection rounds one day. He'd asked if anyone played a musical instrument, especially violin, piano and cello, preferably all three. He'd been the first to respond, because he had heard of the child, Zannah, who played violin in the Oberleutnant's quarters. He was himself a cellist, but could play the violin and piano equally well.

"What is your name?" Von Wangenheim had asked.

"Simeon Dobrinski. I taught at the Krakow Conservatoire of Music. What is it you desire, Oberleutnant? he asked, rather boldly.

"You must report to Oberstleutnant Gaertner's quarters tomorrow at 10h00. The child will be there. You are to tutor her so that she remains in practice."

He had nodded, not certain whether he'd like to see a child raped by a senior officer of the Reich in the quarters of another officer. But orders were orders. He'd reported the next morning, knocking on Gaertner's door. When that man opened the door, he scowled first. Simeon thought it was his duty to look scowling, unsmiling, rigidly upright and disciplined and never let his guard slip. His own heart had thundered, thinking Gaertner was going to shoot him on the spot, though the dubious honour of shooting inmates on the spot went to that jackal Günther Götze.

He'd seen the child sitting quietly on a chair, her violin on her lap. Gaertner had left them alone, after saying, "You have an hour. I do not want to know your name."

That way Simeon Dobrinski could remain a number. He had made his peace with that.

He'd observed the child for what seemed like an eternity. She looked like every child he had seen in the camp - wide-eyed and a little afraid. And why not? They were used as sexual toys by the camp commanders and officers. Men were talking how they could hear screams in the night.

"I will not hurt you, child. Do you understand?" he'd said in the best French he could muster.

" _Oui_ , Maestro."

She'd spoken in a soft, lilting voice.

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes, Maestro." She smiled and her face lit up.

"What is your name, child?"

For a moment he'd seen a flash of pain across the child's face, though it was just a moment. A slight hesitation, as if she weighed her answer.

"I am Zannah Ginsberg."

"I am very pleased to know you, young Zannah. My name is Simeon Dobrinski."

"Maestro Dobrinski."

"Yes. Now, what do you wish you play?"

"Mozart Sonata, K. 376."

"F Major. A good choice." It didn't occur to him to question the child's choice of a piece played flawlessly by the world's best violinists.

She'd nodded, standing up to position her violin against her neck. But he stared fascinated at the instrument. It couldn't be! How could a child possess such a fine instrument? he'd asked himself. He'd owned a Tononi cello, confiscated when they were brought to the camps. He'd loved playing it, just like the great Pablo Casals.

"Zannah," he'd asked, awed by seeing such a great instrument in the hands of a child, "do you realise what violin you have there?"

"A Tononi, Maestro."

"So you know?"

"It belongs to Herr von Wangenheim. He-he said as long as I am alive here in the camp, I can play his violin."

He'd spotted the upright piano when he'd entered; a cello stood in the corner. He sat down at the piano and flexed his fingers, playing an arpeggio or two. The sheet music of the Mozart sonata was already on the music stand.

"Ready?"

"Yes, Maestro."

By the time Zannah had played the first ten bars, he knew the child was gifted. So began an unusual collaboration between a Polish musician and a French violinist amidst the death, shootings, rape, killings, incinerations of the dead, the privation and general squalor around them.

Zannah was a remarkable child, learning quickly, enhancing her already heightened craft by practicing under his watchful eye. Sometimes Herr von Wangenheim would stop by and he'd play the piano while Simeon took her through the finer points of her studies.

He was brought back from his reverie when he heard Zannah's voice.

"Are you dreaming, Maestro?"

He looked at her, wondering for a moment whether her voice was just a dream itself.

"Perhaps, child, I dream of home."

Zannah looked at the kindly teacher. She knew that she was perhaps more privileged than most of the children in the camp because she could play. But she too, dreamed of home sometimes. Her Papa was gone forever. Maman? When she'd been so afraid in the back of the truck, she had seen Monsieur Blériot strike her mother with his rifle. She had seen her mother go down. Her mother did not get up, even though she had screamed for her maman to wake up. She could only remember her mother lying dead on the ground and Lamine bending over her.

She dreamed of her mother who liked to sit on the bed behind her and brush her hair, telling her little stories, laughing at old jokes. She dreamed of her Papa who taught her to name his medical instruments and what they were used for, how her Papa would patiently explain to her what he was doing. Papa taught her to play the violin and the piano, but she loved the violin best of all. Then she and Papa would talk about music. Maman would look at the two of them, complain, then say, "Well, at least she looks like me!"

Then Zannah would become even sadder. She did not know what would happen to her. She had seen many girls disappear and no one knew where they had vanished. She had heard stories that they died, that some of them had been hurt more than ever by the soldiers and died of their injuries. She'd seen women who walked in the fields behind the barracks digging holes to bury the children. Would that happen to her too? she wondered. It made her afraid to walk outside of Herr Oberleutnant von Wangenheim's home. Sometimes when she and Maman Daisy went to the barracks to join the other women and sleep there, she'd heard stories that the girls were dead, that Zannah and her mother were privileged to sleep in the officer's quarters. Were they really dead?

She was very afraid. What if she too, vanished? Who would play her violin? Who would comfort Herr von Wangenheim if she was gone? She didn't want to die now. Maman Daisy always said they should do whatever it takes to stay alive.

If she survived the war, like Maman sometimes talked about, what would happen to her? She was not Daisy Ginsberg's real daughter. Her name was Célestine. In the nights when she lay awake, she would murmur her own name over and over. She would say her mother's name over and over. She would picture her mother, so beautiful, her eyes full of love as they walked along the Champs Élysées. Maman would look in a shop window and see a beautiful dress and say, "My darling Célestine, I think that dress would look very pretty on you."

She missed her own mother, more than she missed her father who had died before her very eyes. Sometimes she dreamed her mother was still alive.

"You are sad, Zannah," said Maestro Dobrinski. "There are tears in your eyes," he said as he stopped playing and moved to stand in front of her.

How could she tell Maestro Dobrinski the truth about her name? Maman Daisy said it was to protect her, so that people must think her mother was with her in the camp. So Zannah shook her head.

"My child, you have a wonderful gift. Perhaps you will not feel so sad when one day, as God wills it, we can leave this camp and you can play with freedom. Come, I shall accompany you to Herr von Wangenheim's house. Put on your coat. It is very cold outside."

"Thank you, Maestro."

They left the house of Johann Gaertner, walked down the six steps and into the road leading to Von Wangenheim's quarters, two hundred metres away. Before they'd even walked ten metres, they were accosted by Kapitan Günther Götze. It was as if he appeared from nowhere, standing in front of them, his riding crop in one hand and his other hand hovering over his sidearm.

Zannah stopped dead in her tracks, her fear already churning through her body so that she shook as she held the violin case. Next to her, Maestro Dobrinski stopped too, taking her free hand in his. She heard him whisper, "Courage, Zannah..."

Götze's eyes reflected pure evil and anger as he looked at Zannah. Her lips began to tremble. He towered above her. They could do nothing but stand still, for any movement, any sign of rebellion would be met with severe punishment. Simeon Dobrinski's only thought was to protect the child next to him. It was clear that Zannah Ginsberg was the object of Götze's attention.

Dobrinski had no doubt as to the German captain's intent.

"Stand aside, Jew."

"Please, Kapitän, she is but a child."

Dobrinski moved to stand in front of Zannah. It enraged Götze even more.

"This girl is good for my bed, Jew. She has whetted my taste. I do not care much for her protector Von Wangenheim. He keeps getting in my way. Now, move!"

When Dobrinski hesitated, Zannah stepped from behind him.

"Please, Herr Kapitän, do not take me..."

Götze bent down to Zannah's eye level and spat at her.

"Your mother was good meat for me. The best cunt in Buchenwald! You will do even better in my bed, you little whore!"

Zannah blanched at Götze's viciousness. She was sobbing, leaning against Dobrinski. Some men and women had come out of the barracks to see what was going on. Nothing that they had not seen before, so some slowly ambled back while others were too afraid to intervene.

"Please, do not take the child," Dobrinski said, facing Götze's glare with equal boldness.

"Please," Zannah pleaded again. "Let me go to Herr Von Wangenheim."

Just mentioning Von Wangenheim's name infuriated Götze even more. His face turned red with anger, remaining oblivious to the child's and Dobrinski's pleading. Very deliberately Götze removed his side-arm and pointed the Luger at them.

" _Verdammt noch mal!_ I do not have time for this!" Götze shouted.

Zannah stared into the barrel of the Luger, her eyes wide with fear. She dropped the violin as her knees started to buckle. Next to her Maestro Dobrinksi gave an agonised cry.

"No! No! Please!"

Then Götze fired.

END CHAPTER FOURTEEN

So...what happens now? Hmmm?


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 **Verdun, France - September 7 - 1944**

Captain Miller reached Verdun at 0900, using the coordinates General Patton had given him via his aide. It was the one thing he couldn't tell Katrine when he spent time with her in Paris. The distance of 162 miles could be reached in about two and a half hours, but he had driven at a reasonable pace, allowing himself time to think about so many things. Katrine was foremost on his mind. She'd looked resigned that he had to leave, that their future was still uncertain.

He loved her. He wanted to take her home to the United States when the war was over. He wanted his mother, stepfather and brother to meet her. He wanted his little boy to see the woman whom he hoped would be a mother to Evan. He hoped so many things, wondering at the same time whether all the things would be realised. He prayed they would.

He wanted Katrine to be more than happy, for she deserved happiness after the trauma of losing her loved ones. From time to time he stole a glance at the simply wrought gold band on his left hand. Charles smiled. Katrine wore the same. The one time in his life he had done something impulsive. But Katrine had been overjoyed, even though she knew he'd be gone the next day.

He gave a sigh of relief when he approached the barracks, frowning when he saw tanks lined up, some fifty trucks parked along the dusty road. Soldiers and officers milled about, some lazing against jeeps and buildings, smoking Camels and playing cards. He stopped alongside the first soldiers ambling along the road, their rifles slung over their shoulders.

"Hey!"

Instantly they stopped and saluted.

"Captain, sir!"

"What's going on! The town was liberated, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Then why are the Red Diamonds and the 9Oth Infantry Division hanging about?"

Before they could answer, he heard screams from one of the trucks, several soldiers jumping off and running towards him.

"Captain Miller! Welcome back!" shouted Francis Longman. "Boy, are we glad to see you!"

"Yeah, we missed you, Cappy," added Compton. Linklater, Miller noticed, saluted him with a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.

"Good to have ya back, Cappy!" he crowed.

"Holy mackerel!" Compton shouted, his eyes glued to Miller's hand. "What happened to your goddam hand, Captain?"

Miller, a little bewildered, looked at his hand, then realised what had excited Private Compton so. They'd seen his ring and their eyes popped.

"No comment, boys."

"As in 'Shut up, it's none of your business' no comment?" Linklater asked.

"Exactly. Now, why are you all still stuck in Verdun?"

"Well, sir, it's like this, sir. We licked them Jerries. Took us ten days to control the town. All them trucks drove from Paris, from Metz, from goddam all over to assist in the operations here. We didn't lose a single Red Diamond, sir!"

"You didn't answer my question, Compton."

"Oh, yeah. We - uh - ran out of gas, sir."

Charles Miller sputtered first, then tried hard to control the urge to laugh at the mournful look on Compton's face. But it was serious business. He had to get to his commander to get the full details, then head to his tent where he could freshen up.

Half an hour later, Colonel Drake apprised him of the current situation. Because they'd advanced so rapidly across France, pushing back the Germans, by the end of August, the XX Corps were practically crippled by the gasoline shortage.

"We've been sitting here for a week, Captain, waiting to refuel. Also, something has arrived for your company from Allied High Command. They believe your troops have distinguished themselves in the field and therefore, you are to lead the charge.

Miller clicked his heels and saluted, then hurried to the provisions trucks.

"Captain Miller! We've been waiting for you. This crate arrived all the way from Springfield, Massachusetts with the blessing of AHC."

"Thanks."

The crate was lowered to the ground and the young soldier in charge of munitions grinned from ear to ear when he took the crowbar and heaved the lid off the crate. Inside were several M1 - Garand rifles with new state of the art scopes. Miller lifted one rifle with its scope. When he lined the scope to a point at the end of the road, he exclaimed, "Hot damn!"

"Yeah, I guessed as much. Says here there are six rifles, Captain. Tell your men to turn in their old rifles. These ones are going to shoot the pea off the princess's head."

"You mean, William Tell shooting the apple off his son's head?"

"That too!"

Miller laughed, then left to round up his small team of snipers. He could already imagine Compton and Longman shooting coyotes on their farms using the M1 Garand with its new and improved super scope.

"Scope lenses designed by Bausch & Lomb. This time it's fixed to eliminate sudden movement, preserving the scope's alignment."

"Oh, this is way better than my baby at home," Longman boasted. "And you say we're going to have to take out targets at least a thousand yards away, Cappy?"

"Yes, if it comes to that. But remember - "

"I know! The bullet loses speed at that distance, will drop a few yards," said Compton. "That means - "

"We have to be at a height of at least five yards, or - "

"If the target is too high, we might have to be way below that to line it up," Linklater added.

Davis and Miller let the boys talk. They had a firm grasp on what was required, knew their weapons intimately, the technobabble understood only by those who'd handled specialised weapons. The new M1 Garand had only a few modifications, but it was the scope that had undergone improvements. Miller had tested the scope earlier and was amazed by the clarity and increased zoom facility.

"We need another trooper to fire our sixth rifle. Any ideas?" Miller asked them.

Linklater who was stroking the barrel of his weapon, the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from his mouth, spoke without looking up.

"That spawn who was so shit scared of you, the one who brought you the letter when we left St. Clair - "

"Frazier Riley. Almost peed in his pants when he stood in front of Cappy."

"Yes, that's the one," Miller said. "What about him?"

"Well, Captain," Davis intervened finally after he too had polished his already shiny rifle and scope, "Riley trained with another special ops platoon, specialising in gun management. Hey, he's good with grenade launchers too. Very accurate. Good shot, great eye, if you ask me."

"We'll test him at target practice, Cappy," said Longman. "I think he could be the real deal."

"Get him for me. Leave his rifle here. I want to talk to him first. Dismissed."

They all saluted. Captain Miller sat in the tent designated as his office and spent the next few minutes studying the specs of the rifle once again. Allied High Command had great faith in his company to entrust them with taking out the enemy at strategic points, especially bridges and look-out towers. They'd done solid work in Coumond, Vidouville, St. Clair and Paris. He guessed General Patton had something to do with the new developments. It was a good decision, he reckoned. Paris and Verdun had been subjected to very heavy fighting. He had reason to think that it could get much worse the closer they advanced to Germany. Snipers were going to be the trump card in future warfare. He should remember to tell his brother that once he was back on American soil. Right now, all strategic information was highly classified.

They had amateur photographers in all units who'd assist in recording events for posterity. This was a war, he thought, no one should forget. Too many soldiers had given their lives for the cause. They should be remembered.

There was a knock on the wooden plaque against the tent pole.

"Come."

The very scared Frazier Riley entered, stood at attention and saluted.

"You called me, Captain, sir!

"At ease before you sprain something. I won't bite."

Miller gazed up at the young man whose eagerness shone in his face. The boys had probably told him about their mission. He could use another crack shot.

"You shoot?"

"Yes, sir. National rifle champion for three years. Waiting for the next Olympics, sir."

"Good. We have a job for you. How would you like being part of my team of snipers?"

"Sir! That would be a great honour, sir!"

"Fine. Let's go!"

"Sir?"

"You say you're a good marksman. I have to test you. Come."

"Thank you, sir! I will not disappoint you, sir!"

"You'd better not. Between you and your target stands death."

Miller handed him the new M1 Garand rifle. Riley whistled through his teeth.

"Sorry, sir. Wow!" Riley stroked the barrel pretty much as Charles had seen the others do. He had a feeling the test was going to be a success.

They walked outside to the nearest open field. His boys had already set up target practice posts with cans on them.

Half an hour later Miller was convinced.

 **Ardennes Offensive [Battle of the Bulge] 16 Dec.1944 - 25 Jan. 1945**

The cold ate into his bones despite the thick army coat he wore. In the past four months it had snowed more or less every day. His fingers were so stiff he had difficulty holding his pen, sitting alone in his tent while the rest of his company were spread out in the thicket.

The Ardennes Forest.

He had never experienced a wooded region so impassable. From being inactive because of their gasoline shortage, their tanks and trucks struggled to find routes through the dense woods. They had not expected the Germans to pose such a daunting defence against the Allied Forces. For months they'd battled the enemy who'd launched a surprise attack on the Allies through the impenetrable forest. The senior officers of their regiments hadn't seen it coming, and if they'd known, they'd ignored it. Sgt Holling, his radioman, had been right. The coded messages he'd intercepted and decoded had all but been ignored back in September by the top brass. They'd thought it would be impossible for the Germans to continue sustained attacks in the Ardennes.

His journal for the period started with " _The Germans are a formidable foe whom we underestimated. To beat them back cost us too many American lives_."

It had been in mid-September, just after they'd secured a shallow bridgehead across the Moselle River, that his new radioman had approached him in his tent.

"What is it, Sgt Holling?"

"Captain Miller, I think you should see this."

Loaded with his radio gear and a few sheets of paper, he stepped forward to the makeshift desk. He put the radio down and handed the papers to Miller.

Miller studied the papers then frowned heavily.

"Is this what I think it is, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir." Holling smiled grimly.

"You have intercepted radio communication from German Headquarters to their troops on the ground?"

"Yes, sir. They are - "

"Planning to attack through the Ardennes, a very thick forest populated by trees of every description. How do they plan to do that?"

"That is as far as I could decrypt their coded message, Captain. I think it is important."

"Come with me," Miller stated as he rose from the desk.

He hadn't thought they'd run into objections when they faced s is General Irwin, who shot it down as a ruse to make them think the Germans were going to advance through the dense forests of the Ardennes. How could they do that, anyway, when there were no roads, only a few paths?

"We cut across northern France in record time, enough to have been crippled by the fuel shortage at Verdun. We defeated the Germans in France. There is no reason we cannot hold them off now that we have refuelled and our fuel supplies are not far behind us."

"I think this is serious, General."

"Captain, I understand your concern. But it's nothing to worry about. We move ahead according to our plans. Is that clear?"

Later Miller said to Holling. "Keep those messages. I think we're in deep trouble."

"It means we're not going to be ready."

"You can say that again. But, we are here to - "

"Follow orders, Captain. I understand."

Captain Miller pulled himself back to the present and peered into the semi-dark. Snow weighed down the branches of the giant spruce trees and Douglas firs - a white landscape pockmarked by trees as far as the eye could see. Cold and snow and trees. He looked at a copse of birches - tall, thin rods pressed into the thick layers of snow. They reminded him of Day of the Dead Dolls, skulls with black holes for their eyes staring at him. He saw the faces of his men staring through those grotesque eyes.

Miller gave a groan of pain as he tried to shut out images of their twisted bodies as they lay on the blood-spattered snow, ugly red blood seeping into the ground, swelling around the fallen. But they kept coming and he wondered whether the images and the memory of dead and dying, of panzers felling trees like they were tooth picks, of the enemy in their faces, would ever leave him. Every birch with its black nodes where branches had fallen off looked like men who had died. The XX Corps of the Third Army had paid a heavy price for the over confidence of its leaders. No one was going to want to be accountable for the loss of so many lives.

While they'd defeated the enemy, it had taken them months to push through the Ardennes, with many of their men dead or taken prisoners of war.

Miller sighed. They were nearing the end, he was sure of that. He badly wanted to tell Edward of his feelings, the harrowing nightmares, his own actions and combats. So badly. So he'd taken to do what a number of his closest troops were doing - storing every image, every event, every death of a colleague in an outpouring of words in a journal.

"I lost one of my best men today," he'd written in December, on Christmas day. Miller forced himself to revisit that day, that hour when fierce fighting had continued for weeks...

 **Ardenwecht - December 21 1944**

"Hold that line, Compton!" he shouted. They trudged almost knee-deep in the unforgiving snow that fell in unending silence. Their tanks struggled through the narrow path they'd forged.

"Yes, sir!" Compton yelled as bullets flew about them. They ducked behind trees, finding their targets with ease. Riley proved invaluable as he could line up targets at short range. At the outside left flank, Davis and his men fought like hell to break the impasse.

"Duck!" he shouted as German helmets came into view and he fired. The bullet penetrated the soldier's helmet and he fell to the ground, dead. For a moment Miller was glad that he'd suffered only a concussion when a German bullet ricocheted off his helmet.

Struggling to maintain his balance, he darted forward behind another tree. He saw Compton, Riley and Linklater doing the same. Then all hell broke loose as a German panzer broke through at three hundred yards, their line of sight obscured by the trees. But to his surprise the panzer cannon aimed at the trees.

As if in slow motion the action unfurled before him. Massive trunks and branches split into hundreds of giant splinters.

"Riley, now!"

"Got him, Captain!"

Riley carried a portable grenade launcher, lining it up to take aim at the panzer.

"Fire now!"

Riley fired. The grenade propelled directly for the cannon. It hit the nozzle, the force taking it deep in before it exploded. The panzer lifted off the ground, creating a spray of snowflakes as it settled again.

"Grenades!" he screamed. The hurled their grenades, disabling any further movement of the panzer. They fired as the soldiers lifted the hatch to escape the burning vehicle.

"Captain! Over here!" Compton shouted. As tall and strong as Compton was, Miller saw his best marksman's face red, nose running and looking like he would cry.

His heart thudded wildly as he ran towards the trees struck by the panzer. Then he screamed.

"Linklater!"

He knew Riley and Longman were safe. It had to be Eugene Linklater, his chain-smoking sniper.

"He's still alive, Cappy!" Compton shouted in the lull during the fighting.

He sank down next to the stricken Linklater. "Go, Compton, Riley. Cover us."

"Captain?"

Compton appeared stricken and Riley shook his head.

"Go kill those sons-of-bitches!"

He hardly noticed that they'd scurried off as he looked at Linklater. The young soldier was a mess. His legs had been blown off and a thick sliver of wood from a branch had pierced his chest right through. Linklater was dying, his blood pouring from open wounds.

"Hold on there, Link, okay?"

"Sorry, Cappy, end...of...the...road...for me," he breathed, blood from his chest, mouth and legs staining the snow in a deep dark red.

Linklater tried to lift his head, his speech slow and laboured.

"No...don't pull out the wood, Captain. It's over. Been...a bloody...good fight."

"Stay with me, Link. We'll get you to the stretchers."

"Over, Cappy. Cappy?"

He could see Linklater going. His eyes were beginning to glaze. "Cig...cig..."

From Linklater's pocket Miller retrieved a cigarette and matches. Lighting one, he placed it between Link's lips. The dying soldier took a puff before the cigarette fell limply from his mouth. Charles bit his lip to stop from screaming.

"Cappy?"

"Yes?"

"Let Sandrine know, okay? I wanted...to live...for her..."

Linklater's eyes closed slowly as he breathed his last. He sagged back limply. Miller pulled the splint from Link's chest then hauled him into his arms, clutching the dead soldier tightly as he cried out, "God damn you all!"

He had to leave Linklater behind. As he ran to join the others, he passed dead bodies sown all over the pristine snow, blood soaking into the ground.

Throughout the night, the heavy fighting continued. Their boots crunched in the snow as they engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Miller fought like a demon, the broken bodies of Linklater and other soldiers of the Red Diamonds constantly flashing like an old silent movie in his head. And the organ accompaniment became the thunderous firing of tanks, bombs, grenades. The noise remained in his head as the images rolled by unrelentingly by.

He was no longer aware of the rage that caused his facial muscles to spasm as he twisted the necks of the Krauts. He dropped the dead bodies in the same moment that he raised his rifle and fired at Germans rushing at them from every tree, popping their heads out of every ditch in their push forward towards Liège.

In the early hours of the morning, the noise receded, the blazing guns dimmed. Germans lay everywhere, their bodies contorted in grotesque imitations of evil dead puppets staring with unseeing eyes at the dark skies. Men from the XX Corps also lay there, their dead bodies no different from those of the enemy scattered everywhere in the Ardennes Forest. Firing had died down almost completely. Only in the distance could he hear the sounds of bombs, aerial attacks, tanks blown up. Those sounds were far away, he reckoned, like echoes in a deep wood. Only, the echoes remained in his head that wanted to burst from witnessing too much.

Slowly he recalled his men to regroup. No army tents to offer comfort from the cold, to let surviving troops mull over those comrades they'd lost, about what they too had seen and heard, of trees felled like toothpicks by German panzers, of bodies blown up...

He crept into a ditch. Davis, he knew, was nearby in out of the wind. It had stopped snowing. Their heavy coats and woollen sleeping bags, carried with their back packs while fighting occurred, had to do while they bivouacked until morning broke grey over the tops of the trees. The only sound was lumps of snow sliding off branches and thudding softly to the ground.

"Captain..."

Compton's voice close to him.

"Yeah?"

"Linklater wanted to marry Sandrine Desmarais."

Miller sighed. "I know. I will write to Lamine Bhoutayeb to inform her. She understands very little English and he can translate."

"Are you okay, Cappy?"

"You worried about your Captain? Is that a first?"

"I'm always worried, Cappy. Might not look like it."

"Anything else?" Miller asked.

"I was next to Linklater when he got blown. It should have been me..."

"What the hell are you saying, Compton?"

"Just that at the last moment, when the German tank fired, he pushed me out of the way. He saved my life. It should have been me..."

Then Compton did something Miller had never seen him do. He began to cry - deep, hard, noisy sobs that wracked his wiry frame. It was an unapologetic weeping that more than anything else, was the collective pent-up release of trauma he'd witnessed from the moment they'd stepped on French soil. Miller moved closer to Compton but didn't touch the young marksman. Rather he let Compton cry until the wretched sobbing subsided.

War in the Ardennes Forest was a horror show, a theatre of unimagined hostilities, carnage so gruesome that the images of broken bodies played relentlessly on the minds of soldiers. All his men who'd survived the last eighteen hours of bloodshed and seen their best friends and comrades die would need some kind of counselling, a solace he felt inadequate to provide, although he tried his best. He made a mental note to speak to the regiment's chaplains to counsel his distraught troops. Many of the enlisted soldiers were only eighteen or nineteen when they had joined the regiment in 1940 and played war games on the fields of Fort McClellan, Iceland and Northern Ireland. In Europe, the reality hit them like the very bullets they spent killing the enemy.

He was a captain, hardened by years of discipline and command honed on Lake Washington throughout his university rowing days. He could internalise his grief at seeing comrades die, many of whom had been under his command since the 5th Infantry Division was activated. He suppressed his traumas and presented the tough exterior they expected from their commanding officers. The soldiers needed help first; his own needs took a back seat to those of the injured, the distraught, the dying.

Compton would have to live with the memory of his best friend taking a bullet for him. That was not an easy burden to bear.

He looked at the accident -prone soldier and gripped his shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

"You'll be alright, Compton. Try not to think of broken bodies in the snow, but rather that they died heroically, just like you engage in acts of heroism and will continue to do so."

"I'm gonna miss him. Sorry for bawling like that."

"You're allowed to grieve. Don't think guys aren't supposed to, okay? We still have a way to go in this war. You're going to engage, you're going to line up the enemy in your scope with those crazy super good lenses and every time you hit your target, it's to honour your comrades who died."

"You put that very well, sir. Longman would say that's ironic. What about you?"

"What about me? I don't count - "

"Now that's goddam madness! You went out there after Link died and I swear to God Almighty you were taking revenge, so goddam crazy you were. Twisting them Jerries' necks like that. What must they be thinking..."

Miller chuckled. He patted Compton's shoulder. "Know what, Compton? I think you're going to be alright."

Compton thought he would remember for the rest of his life how his friends had died and he'd remained alive. He made a silent vow to shoot every goddam coyote that troubled their livestock on their farm in Iowa, and every goddam coyote would look like a giant swastika. Yeah, he thought, he'd enjoy taking revenge on vermin.

 **Remagen - March 1945**

When they'd advanced to Metz to relieve that city, they'd been successful with little loss of life. The troops had been upbeat then, especially after they'd been bolstered by the presence of Third Army leader General George S. Patton himself, whose battle cry "Go kill those sons-of-bitches" became their war cry too. So they'd vanquished the enemy, their snipers cutting open lines for the foot soldiers to move forward and engage in hand-to-hand combat. From time to time he'd hear his team "Damned sons-of-bitches" just like Patton blustered.

Now they trudged through the snow and ice and winter rain of the Ardennes, all the way from Metz northwards to Liège - a distance of roughly a hundred miles. They'd left Liège behind and were heading directly east towards the German border. At night, the trees took on an eerie landscape, becoming once again Day of the Dead Dolls with the faces of his men. Then Miller closed his eyes and forced away the grotesque images. Beautiful, ugly apparitions, tall ghosts enveloped in white snow, casting long shadows in the light of the moon.

He needed to speak with Katrine, or just be in her presence so that her very nearness could calm the raging demons in him. She would know what to do, how to bring peace to his battered soul. He missed her and every moment when there was a lull in the fighting or when they rested for much needed breaks in the evenings, he'd think of her. He saw her tentative smile that last morning when he left. They'd made love during the night. In the middle of the night, while she was sleeping, he got up and prepared to leave her home. Once again he couldn't say goodbye, although his heart ached at seeing the sadness in her eyes. He didn't want to hurt her, but he knew his Katrine. She was a fighter whose hardships had honed her to expect whatever the fates dealt her.

At night, they bivouacked in ditches, making the best of the icy conditions, the sleet, the rain, icicles hanging from branches. They marched through snow darkened by blood and knew it to be from Allied soldiers whose bodies had been carried away by litter bearers. Other times the lone body of a German soldier lay in the grotesque posture of the dead, contorted like dried grape wood branches.

So January crept into February, into March, when at last the sun came out, heralding the coming of spring, the fresh green branches of the birch trees, the giant oaks, the great Douglas firs standing tall. Their bones finally began to lose the icy coldness that had settled in them since Verdun.

They used their rations sparingly. It was a long way from A-Rations where they'd eat hot food in mess hall kitchens. They were used to eating on the fly, though. In a day or two their stocks would be replenished. He was dying to drink some of Katrine's Picard Shiraz or have a genuine steaming mug of tea, preferably sitting across a table from Katrine while she watched him enjoy his drink.

He missed her suddenly with a fierce, burning desire. He missed her cocky look when he lay awake in the morning and she'd been up for a while. He missed the lingering kiss that followed. He couldn't write her nor make any radio contact, lest they breach their own security. He looked at his left hand, frozen stiff from cold, finding it difficult to remove his ring. A simple gold wrought ring. His and Katrine's, on a hot summer's day when they'd decided to be impulsive. That day they'd looked deep into each other's eyes and made a vow.

"I will never, ever regret this, Katrine."

"Will you tell me about your ring?" Davis had asked not long after he'd reached Verdun in September.

"Katrine has an identical ring," he replied. Davis had smiled, understanding in his eyes.

"I don't know if I will make it home," he'd told Charles. "But I live in constant hope. I know Lynne is patiently waiting for me. I guess you feel the same about Katrine. Congratulations, Captain."

"Thanks. We both knew the risks and we were prepared to take them."

"I understand. You duty right now is to your command, to see the troops advance safely, be responsible for them."

"Katrine understands, believe me."

"I know. She is a very, very beautiful and spirited woman who has been strengthened by her loss."

After that, Davis had kept silent about the rings and let the troops continue to conjecture about their significance.

Now most of the time, they marched, resting a day or two occasionally before continuing. The German defence line had been breached by the combined US and British troops, but along the north they ferociously resisted Allied movement into Germany.

The men were cold but their spirits never dimmed in the onslaught. They had to cross the Rhine, find a way to open a path for their trucks and foot soldiers to cross...

Miller's company had been bolstered by the addition of sixty soldiers from the 90th Infantry Division. They would reach the end of the forest boundary and the German border within twenty four hours. Already as they marched, bomber planes droned past towards the east into Germany, clearing corridors for troop movements.

When the Red Diamonds reached a small village in the dead of night, they were beset by a restless calm. People remained indoors although Belgium had been liberated months ago except for the country's eastern border where they now found themselves.

Tents were pitched in double quick time. Several villagers who had ventured outside to the fields adjacent to some buildings brought warm milk, hot water and extra blankets. They assured the villagers they would return their blankets in the morning. The townspeople smiled, expressing their gratitude about the liberation of their country and the end of the persecution of Belgian Jews.

Miller's tent was comprised of a lantern, a folding table and a stretcher. He was dog tired but remained awake in case any soldier needed to speak with him. The chaplains had done wonders, simply encouraging the soldiers to talk about their troubles. Where possible, they performed last rites for dying soldiers.

In the early hours of the morning, Miller and Davis spoke to their men as they paraded for duty and new orders. The air was crisp, a biting cold still present. But after months of fighting in winter, they were barely aware of it.

"This is it, Red Diamonds. You have displayed great courage in the face of battle. We have lost many men and will hold them forever dear in our memories. Now We march towards the Rhine. Let me tell you, it will not be easy, never easy. This will be one of our most difficult incursions. In a few hours, we will cross into Germany. We will be joined by the US 9th Infantry Division making our way to the Rhine."

Miller paused. A young Private First Class raised his hand.

"Yes, Grayson?"

"Will we shoot those sons-of-bitches along the way?"

 _Patton's foot soldiers..._

"You can bet on it. Dismissed!"

They crept silently over the German border twenty miles east of the village they'd left in the early hours of the morning. Like the turn of a penny the landscape changed. They'd left the forest behind, marching across green hills. In the distance they could see mountains, which Captain Miller knew to be the approach to the Rhineland region and the rich industrial Ruhr valley.

He'd been in conference with the Red Diamond leaders and the 9th Infantry Division. The plan of attack was to cross the Rhine, even if they had to swim. His men had joked about getting their feet wet once again crossing rivers with their backpacks on their heads.

Charlie knew from his WWI studies and intelligence sent to the two divisions, that virtually all the bridges across the Rhine had been destroyed by the Germans. To their surprise, however, Intelligence had determined that the bridge at Remagen was still standing. German engineers had cleverly designed it in such a way that the concrete structures of the bridge - the abutments and rail tracks - contained holes in which they could plant sticks of dynamite. That way they thwarted any attempt of the enemy to advance further into Germany. The Rhine was their last natural line of defence against the Allied Ground Forces. Meanwhile, bomber planes droned overhead in a constant stream of noise and explosions.

"A tactical error," muttered Miller in the conference. "They've just given us passage into Germany."

"Indeed," replied Colonel Drake. "We must make sure the bridgehead remains secure until all our ground troops and vehicles have crossed it."

"That should not be too difficult. Although we can assume the west bank to be heavily guarded, the east bank would most likely not have the same level of security."

Drake nodded, then continued.

"Each company has their own snipers, but Captain Miller's team will mark the left tower while snipers of the 9th will target the right tower."

Their companies moved with stealth along little hillocks that dotted the Remagen valley. It struck Miller that the ground was perfectly designed. It was uneven, almost terraced with jutting rocks that could have been part of the original landscape thousands of years ago. Now grass and shrubs and the occasional trees grew over them. It provided good cover for them on their approach to the bridge. He wondered how the German war room could have missed such a strategic entry point. "It's like he's saying we can come and get them." Charlie thought the Remagen incursion would be the subject of military debate long after the war was over.

They kept far out of sight of the town. When they had the towers in their sights, Miller used hand signals for his men to station themselves. The bridge was two hundred yards directly ahead of them.

"Gonna have to get into a goddam tree, Cappy," Compton mumbled. "I can see them loopholes in my scope. Holy mackerel! They could fit a whole platoon in there!"

"That's right, Compton. Assume the place is heavily guarded."

"We're taking out anything that moves on the roof of the left tower. The 9th's snipers will do the same on the right."

Miller, Davis and Riley found good positions to brace their M1s while Compton and Longman targeted the loopholes on the walls of the tower, designed so that German soldiers could fire through them at the enemy. Riley also positioned his grenade launcher which he had been given after Miller discovered belatedly that the young marksman had a very good, accurate eye. Everywhere, men of the 9th and 5th divisions were lying more or less hidden in the grass and behind shrubs and rocks.

As the Red Diamonds and men of the 9th Infantry Division settled into position, the first shot rang out. Miller saw the flash from one of the loopholes.

"Damn!" he muttered as he saw one of his men go down. Then all hell broke loose.

He lined his scope and aimed for the Germans on the roof of the tower. In the sunlight they could be spotted easily as their buckles, badges and buttons flashed. One by one they went down, some plunging from the tower. On the right tower, soldiers also fell like flies. As soon as a brass button glinted in the sun, they took aim.

Bullets thudded into the turf close to him. Someone cried out, then ducked behind a bush.

Meanwhile Frazier Riley, three times national rifle champion, had primed his M1 Garand by attaching his M7 grenade launcher to the muzzle of his rifle. He'd already inserted the blank cartridges that would propel the grenade 200 yards, his distance from the left tower.

"Riley! Now!"

"I'm on it, Captain!" Riley responded as he rushed a few feet forward while the rest of the platoon covered him. He had to aim accurately as he dug the rifle butt into the ground and fired. The grenade propelled from the launcher at great speed.

Miller hoped Riley had calculated his distance to within an inch of its target. The grenade popped into the largest loophole. A terrific boom echoed as the grenade exploded. On the other side the same thing happened.

"Bull's eye!"

Then suddenly, shots were fired from their left flank.

"Damn!" Miller shouted as he ducked and dived for cover, shooting at the unknown assailants from the river bank. Bullets whizzed past him. As they countered the new offensive from the enemy, they crept forward slowly, gaining valuable ground. Riley launched another grenade, aiming for the river bank to their left. Another loud boom. Still, shots continued from all directions.

Miller heard a scream as another soldier went down. Longman and Compton who had taken up position in two large trees had better visuals, and calmly took out one after the other.

Then it happened.

A young private fell about fifteen yards from his position. The soldier screamed as he clutched at his stomach. Robert Davis rushed forward to take up position next to the fallen, firing while he ran. He was going to drag the soldier to relative safety. Miller heard the ping sound of a grenade launched by the enemy from behind the river bank.

"Take cover, everyone!" he yelled at the men. The projectile arced in their direction.

"Davis! Goddammit! Look out! Look out!"

Miller fell down burying his face in the ground and covering his head. Rifle grenade...fatality radius eleven yards... The boom rent the air as smoke and shrapnel shot in all directions. A silence followed before he heard Longman shout.

"Goddam you sons-of-bitches!"

He began firing again as he slid down the branches and rushed forward. Compton followed and with him, three or four of his men, shooting at the last of the Germans who were hidden behind the riverbank.

While Compton and Longman and other ran towards the river, shots were still fired at them from the river's edge. In their droves, men of the 9th and 5th rushed forward, cornering the remaining Germans trapped at the river bank.

Miller ran to where he'd last seen Davis. The young soldier - from the 90th regiment on loan to the 5th - lay dead, limbs torn from his body. There was nothing he could do for the young man.

"Davis!"

A bullet whizzed past him and another bit the ground just in front of him as he ran toward his comrade. Davis seemed unconscious but Miller flung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed his comrade by the arms and literally dragged him back, down a little hillock where they were out of the firing line.

Davis was still alive, but severely injured. His left leg had been hit by shrapnel and grenade casing. Shrapnel had also pierced his upper thighs and arm. His hair was singed and burn marks stained his left cheek. Davis groaned as he came to. He was in great pain.

"Captain..."

"Hang in there, Robert," Miller said, using his given name.

"Did we win this sortie?" he asked, his eyes threatening to close again.

The firing had died down. Occasionally shots could be heard. Compton, Riley and Longman were aiming at the towers on the east bank of the river, a clear 380 yards, well within their capabilities. Their new M1s were effective. Already their tanks, trucks and gun carriages were readying to cross the Rhine.

Miller nodded, then said, "I guess we have."

"I'm glad."

"The litter bearers will be here shortly."

"My leg, Captain. It's gone, I guess."

Miller looked at Davis's leg. It was in very bad shape. It would have to be amputated. He gave a sigh.

"Right, Captain?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm sorry."

"Was hoping to see out the end of the war, to battle to the very end." Davis gave a cry of pain. Miller gripped the stricken officer's hand in his.

"You have been courageous, Robert. Never forget that."

Davis was fast losing consciousness. Miller heard a rush up the hill and sighed with relief as the first of the stretcher bearers arrived. He stayed with Davis until he was carried away to the ambulances and the field hospital set up just outside the town of Remagen. Mercifully there were no German soldiers on patrol there, as one of the field nurses assured him.

"We'll take good care of him, Captain, though I don't mind telling you that - "

" - his leg will be amputated."

"Your comrade in arms is going home, Captain."

 _5th Infantry Division_

 _10th regiment_

 _Company A_

 _March 17 1945_

 _Dear Admiral Davis_

 _By now you will have received the news that your son Lieutenant Robert Sinclair Davis has been injured in combat and has been given a medical discharge. His injuries were such that his leg had to be amputated._

 _Lieutenant Davis has borne his trauma well. I can attest that he has displayed the highest act of bravery which has resulted in his injuries. He has assured me that he does not believe his disability to have any negative impact on his life, other than that he may no longer be on active duty for the United States Army._

Charles paused and bit the top of his pen. He thought of the day, a week after they'd secured the Remagen bridgehead, when he'd gone to see the injured soldiers at the field hospital. There were many from both regiments, most of whom would be heading for home in the United States.

Meanwhile three other regiments had also made their way across the Remagen bridge, all from the XX Corps.

He'd stopped by Davis's bed. He was sitting up, one arm in a sling, a bandage around his head, one leg swinging over the side.

"Hey..."

Davis saluted, making Miller think of the day General Patton had visited him at the field hospital. For a soldier who had been injured, Davis's piercing blue eyes were clear, almost upbeat.

"Captain!"

"How are you doing, Lieutenant?"

"In the circumstances, very well. I'll have to use crutches to get by until I'm back in the States. Then I'll have a prosthesis fitted."

"It's not going to stop you from being mobile and active again, right?"

Davis had given him a long, penetrating look.

"Captain, your brother is disabled as a result of polio. That did not stop him from being active. You once told me how the two of you rowed on Lake St. Clair. There is nothing wrong with his arms and upper body, his eyes and ears. You told me how he wasn't limited by callipers and crutches..."

Miller had smiled. It was an evening in which they'd exchanged pleasantries that drifted to home and longing.

"Yes, I did. I am proud of my brother."

"I guess I could say Somebody up there has a greater purpose or plan for my life. I simply think I was lucky. Hundreds of our soldiers died for this cause, Captain. Many hundreds more suffered debilitating injuries worse than mine. Like me, they will have to get by with prosthetics. Look at the young soldier over there. His arm was amputated. They tried to save it, you know? I can tie my laces, close a button, anything that needs tying. He will have to learn an altogether new way of doing things that we take for granted." Davis paused, but he wasn't finished. "Douglas Bader lost both his legs in '31and yet he was still able to fly a bomber craft. What is this?" Davis had asked, pointing to his stump. "It's just a stump, Captain. It's not going to stop me doing things..."

"You have a very positive attitude, my friend. I am glad - "

"Besides, if you'd been anywhere else on that little hill of the Remagen Valley, I'd have bled to death. Yes, I was told you dragged my body out of the line of fire."

"It's what a soldier does, Davis."

"Then I guess my life belongs to you!" Davis had given a broad grin. "Don't worry about me, Captain. I won't be standing still when I'm back in the States."

 _Lieutenant Davis has displayed the same steely determination to recover and his philosophy to succeed despite his injury is admirable. I am tremendously proud of your son. He has received several commendations for bravery in combat and his resilience to bounce back regardless is what has and will still define your son._

 _I could not have asked for a better second-in-command, a more dedicated officer and gentleman in Lieutenant Davis. I am honoured to have served with him._

 _Yours sincerely_

 _Captain Charles Anson Miller_

By the time Admiral Davis received the letter, Miller thought, they would have advanced further into Germany. Germany might have been defeated by then. He was glad that he'd written, because he wanted Robert's father to see the good man his son was, that he was a man of valour, of daring and a damned great marksman. He was going to miss his second-in-command. Already a new officer had been appointed by the Division's leadership. Men of the 5th all possessed the heart of a lion. They would fight and fight hard. Lieutenant Andrew Hemmings was tough as nails.

By the 17th of March, most of the four Infantry divisions had crossed the bridge at Remagen. Aerial battles still raged and the Germans had tried to blow up the bridge several times. American teams of engineers and servicemen worked tirelessly to restore the broken steel cables, the tracks, the log planks over the tracks that allowed vehicular traffic across. Hundreds of trucks, gun carriages, jeeps, tanks, supply vehicles and thousands of infantrymen had crossed Remagen's bridge. While they were building a second pontoon bridge, the original bridge provided passage for the rest of the First Army.

Charlie closed his eyes. It had to happen, eventually. The bridge had finally collapsed completely, killing twenty eight and wounding sixty three engineers.

Their regiments had headed towards the nearest city, Cologne. There they fought off a belligerent German battalion and captured the city. Prisoners of war were held at a nearby camp where they'd freed French soldiers who'd been captured in France 1940 and brought to Cologne. It was a reversal of circumstances where the freed Frenchmen together with a platoon of the Red Diamonds became the guards.

The few days respite gave Charles the opportunity to study his French from the book Katrine had given him. Even while they marched, he'd practice silently, running phrases over and over in his head. He missed her every day. He prayed that he would never stop missing her, for then their love would begin to dim and he didn't want that to happen. Not ever. Even as he thought about her, his heart began to hammer, causing him to become breathless. For a moment he felt dizzy. He relaxed and the dizziness passed.

He thought of home. Home was an ocean away, yet he could still hear Evan's voice, clear as a bell, and Mama's voice, always strong, tinged with love and concern. He wanted to be in his in his family's company listening to them, just listening, for he missed the comfort of voices.

He wrote in his journal...

 _"There are times I see the fear in a young German's eyes just before my bullet pierces his heart and I feel a momentary regret that I have killed him. As soldiers and officers we are trained to understand the rules of engagement. An infantryman wept when he killed a young German soldier. We are engaged in open hostilities in a theatre of war. Did he murder the German? Sometimes these thoughts tend to strike anyone of us and plunge us into an unholy depression, because we are wracked by doubt that killing on the field of battle could not be justified by a declaration of war._

 _I see in front of me the enemy who would kill me if I didn't kill him first. I need to protect myself in order that I can continue to lead my troops. I have to see an innocent young German foot soldier carrying out der Führer's orders as just that: he is the enemy. I lost very good men to death, to serious injury. I will remember them always, for it is impossible to forget men and comrades who had lived side by side with me for almost five years._

 _I feel the end of hostilities is very near._

END CHAPTER FIFTEEN


	17. Chapter 17

Thank you everyone who posted comments on the story.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 **Detroit - Thursday November 23 1944**

The stuffed roast turkey glistened golden brown on the platter while the surrounding dishes were a veritable array of culinary extravagance - melt-in-the-mouth mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole, glazed carrots and green beans and salad. Althea Miller-Wachinski gave a sigh of satisfaction. The cranberry sauce tasted as divine as only Lucy could make it. The two of them had slaved in the kitchen since early morning with Isaac and Edward keeping an eye on the kids and entertaining them.

The table was laid for six. A high chair stood next to Lucy for baby Winonah. It was a feast such as she hadn't had in a long time. Edward and Lucy and the children had arrived the previous day so she was happy to indulge them just like when they were kids and dear Henry, their father, was alive. Sighing, she blocked out all thoughts of missing Charles once again at Thanksgiving.

She was inordinately glad that Edward and Lucy had wanted to be with her this year although they lived in another state. This time of the year, sons, daughters, grandsons travelled great distances to be with their families. So many had gone off to war and so many never returned. During the First World War, many soldiers were listed missing in action, their bodies never found. It was always sad when a mother, a father lived in the vain hope that a son or grandson would one day return. Now she felt the same about Charles. What if he were listed as missing in action? Or dead? Then she berated herself for Charles would tell her never to lose hope.

She'd heard the noise of the boys all morning. Isaac had wanted to help in the kitchen, but Evan was constantly under their feet. Eventually she shooed them from the kitchen and ordered them to go and play outside. It was time, she thought, that they got some help, someone who could come in daily and assist in taking care of a boisterous two year old and as well as help her around the house. Isaac had broached the idea more than a year ago when she'd taken charge of Evan after his parents died. The little boy kept her very busy but she had been adamant that she could manage. She'd told him, "I raised three children and kept a good house without any assistance from outside. I can do this."

She had not taken into account her age, that however much she remained in denial, the body was a machine that was winding down. Now she was inclined to agree with Isaac. Edward and Lucy had help, mainly because Edward could not move very quickly around the house and two lively kids exhausted both of them.

"Mama, you're not getting any younger. While Charles is away, you need extra help."

She'd waived their concerns then but now it was time. She admitted ruefully she wasn't getting any younger, though cooking remained her one great passion which she could continue to enjoy.

The smell of good food wafted through the house. She heard footsteps from Edward's old bedroom. Ahead of them little Charlie descended the stairs noisily. They'd made sure the kids took a nap first before joining the others at the table.

Edward had phoned her, telling her that he'd received a letter from a certain Lamine Bhoutayeb, who'd written mainly about Katrine du Pléssis, the woman with whom Charles was in love. Charles had not given her much information about Katrine when he'd phoned her from Paris, except to tell her that he loved Katrine. She believed Charles, trusted his judgment and knew that she would love Katrine if she walked tomorrow through her front door. By now everyone knew that Katrine's husband and daughter had died during the purge of Jews from France. She wished she knew more about this young woman whom she hoped would become a permanent feature in Charles's life.

Now Edward wanted to read the letter at the table during their dinner.

When everyone was seated, Edward looked at Isaac, who nodded. In the past Edward had always asked for the blessing of the food. Althea's heart warmed at the gesture. She raised her glass as everyone looked at her.

"I am thankful that I have my family with me today. I miss Charlie, but I am sure he is alive and thinking of us on this day."

"Maybe if there's a lull in the fighting, their mess hall sergeants will be preparing meals for them to celebrate," Edward offered, his voice sounding hopeful.

"From what I know," said Isaac, "they will probably be on ration B or C which means they're eating something warm in the field. I'm quite sure they're celebrating, however meagre their meals."

"Amen," Lucy said, chorused by Evan who also said "amen" and little Winonah, hardly able to say "Mama", managed to say "men".

"Yes, men, sweetie!"

"I'm hungry!" complained little Charlie.

"You sound like your uncle Charles, son. He was a voracious eater!" his father said.

"What about you, Isaac?" Althea asked.

"I had no immediate family to speak of when I joined this one," he began. "I was married before but my wife died very young. I was a lonely man until I met your mother. I am thankful that she is in my life, that her children and grandchildren are mine too. It is a real honour."

Edward nodded sagely, saying, "It's an honour for us, sir, to have our mother be special again."

"Well," Lucy, began, "we all know how you keep her so young!"

"Lucy!" Edward exclaimed, blushing.

"Thank you very much, Lucy!" Isaac responded good-naturedly as he held Althea's hand. "What about you?" he asked.

"Mama died when we were young. Dad never married again. My sisters have married out of state. Dad is staying with one of them in Texas." Lucy looked at her husband and gripped his hand briefly. "We named our children for those who are not here with us today. I loved Winonah like a sister and I love Charles like a great brother. I am thankful that we can honour them in that way."

There were tears in Lucy's eyes as she looked at her husband.

"I rejoice in being alive," Edward began. "According to Mama and the doctors, I was not going to survive my illness as a child. But I did. I honour my own father who believed that nothing should stand in the way of progress. For that I am thankful."

"Isaac, I think you should carve the - "

"And me? What about me?" little Charlie piped up while Winonah banged with a spoon on the high chair and Evan cried he wanted ice-cream.

"What about you, squirt?" asked Edward, smiling indulgently.

"I want to be thankful too!"

"Well," Althea said, "you can tell us now, okay?"

"I got Uncle Charlie's name. I'm thankful!"

"Good for you!" everyone chorused. Charlie smiled broadly. "I can row!"

"Yes, now eat your food, sweetie," Lucy ordered in a gentle voice.

"Are you going to read the letter?" Isaac asked later when they sat, replete.

"Oh, yes," said Edward, "I'd almost forgotten."

"I haven't," Althea said.

"Nor I."

Very dramatically Edward retrieved the letter from the envelope, flipped it open and forgot about the photo that slipped out. Lucy ducked under the table to pick up the picture and handed it to Althea. Isaac had moved his chair closer to her to see. Then both of them gasped.

"I told you on the phone about the photo," Edward said, but Althea hardly heard him as she stared open-mouthed at the picture.

"She is beautiful..."

"Aye. They are a striking couple."

"What was the occasion?" Althea asked as she glanced at Edward before her eyes were glued again to the picture of Katrine and Charles.

While Edward explained, Althea gazed at Katrine in her blue dress with its narrow waist and padded shoulders. But it was Katrine's face that was arresting, her eyes so clear, staring directly into the camera. Her smile... Althea recognised the smile. It was the smile of mystique, of knowing something deep, something hidden, something alluring, of knowing _him_ \- Charles who stood next to her, his arm round her tiny waist. Charles whose face was without the strain, the barely contained anger he always exhibited when he was home. He smiled into the camera. Althea only felt her husband's hand on her shoulder as she burst into tears.

She had not seen her son so happy in a long time. Charles had never been happy, not since he'd returned from Fort McClellan in 1940 when he'd thought Lucy would wait for him. After that... So many things had happened. She couldn't stop crying, hardly hearing little Evan who started crying in sympathy with her.

"I miss him so..."

Then everyone got up, even Edward who grabbed his crutches, to stand behind her to hug her.

When she could recover from her tears she motioned that they all sit down again. "Edward, will you read the letter, please?"

"You sure you'll be okay, Mama?"

She nodded.

So Edward read Lamine Bhoutayeb's letter to her, in which he spoke of Katrine and Charles of her husband and daughter who had died at the hands of the Germans. He wrote how he thought that Katrine and Charles were in love and how he was concerned but also confident that they would not go blindly into a relationship, knowing the risks involved.

"Thank you," Althea said, wiping the tears from her face. "Now it's my turn - "

"What is it, Mama?" Lucy asked.

"Yes, what is it, Mama?" little Charlie parroted his mother.

"You remember I called you to tell you Charlie phoned from France and enquired after everyone's health and how he spoke to little Evan here?"

Edward and Lucy nodded, openly curious. Isaac Wachinski just smiled benignly while the children kept up their noise, banging forks on the table. Without looking at him, Lucy nimbly removed the fork from her son while Mama did the same with Evan.

"Charlie called me from Katrine's home in Paris." She paused to let her words sink in. Lucy gasped. Edward gave a sly grin.

"Katrine is in Paris?" he asked.

"From her home?" Lucy exclaimed.

"It seems so. They were together there for almost two weeks while he recovered from an injury - "

"Injury! Mama, you didn't tell us that part!" Edward berated her.

"I didn't want to worry you unduly. He said he was put on enforced leave."

"If he was out for two weeks, he must have sustained a severe injury!"

"I don't know the nature of it, Edward, but he stayed with her. She must have returned just after Paris was liberated. Anyway, he did say something that makes that young man - "

"Lamine."

"Yes, Lamine. His concerns about them were correct. Charlie told me he loves Katrine."

"He did?" Lucy asked.

"Yes. But he wouldn't say more, although I hope he'll tell us more when he can write."

"Next thing we know, he's going to write and tell us he married her.

Althea's eyes took on a new sheen. "Well, then I welcome her as my daughter, just as Lucy is my daughter."

"Thank you, Mama."

After that they ate dessert, the children clearly enjoying the ice-cream. They cleared the table and the women marched off to the kitchen to tidy up there while the men took charge of the children.

Edward remained thoughtful for the rest of the day. He prayed silently that Charlie would survive and return home.

 **St. Clair - December 1944**

 _5th Infantry Division_

 _10th regiment_

 _Company A_

 _December 21 1944_

 _Dear Lamine_

 _It is with my very deepest regret that I have to inform you that Eugene Linklater was killed in action. I was with him during his final moments and it was his wish that I let Sandrine know of his passing. He was a warrior to the end, for he died saving the life of another soldier. Eugene has fought with distinction and valour and I cannot stress enough how proud I am of him._

 _He loved Sandrine even though they had not known one another very long. He spoke of her often according to his friends and intended visiting her once the war was over. He even spoke of wanting to marry her._

 _I include in this letter his Red Diamond badge which is the insignia of the 5th Armoured Infantry Division, as well as one of his cross-rifles with the number 5 below it. I am sure Sandrine will want to treasure these small tokens in memory of a young soldier who protected her during the regiment's sojourn in St. Clair._

 _Please pass on to her my most profound condolences._

 _Yours sincerely_

 _Captain Charles Anson Miller_

Lamine had brought Brigitte with him to Sandrine's home. Sandrine didn't want to sit down, her whole body primed to receive a message of doom when she'd opened the door to him.

The letter, written in English, was translated by Lamine, and as he read, her distress had grown. Her eyes only registered pain, swimming with tears as she listened.

Her hand caressed her belly, a sob escaping when she felt the first kick of her unborn child.

"I loved him, Brigitte," she said, looking at her childhood friend.

"I know. All of us knew there was something very special between the two of you. I am so sorry that Eugene was killed in action."

"Captain Miller was with him to the end. I even think, the way I know him, that Eugene died in his arms."

"Thank you, Lamine. It is a comfort that he did not die alone."

She caressed her stomach again, tears sliding down her cheeks. "My baby will never know his father, but I will tell him everything of the man he was," she said. "He was generous, kind, protective of me, even when he didn't need to be."

Brigitte smiled. "I know what you mean. Captain Miller had a great influence on his men. They emulate him. Eugene thought of you to the very end, Sandrine, because he cared for you and loved you."

"I know," she said finally, smiling sadly.

"If your child is a girl, what will you call her?" Brigitte asked.

"Why, _Eugenie_ , of course!"

Lamine laughed as he handed Sandrine the letter and the mementoes.

"I will keep this, for even though I might one day meet a man as good as Eugene, I would like my child to have a memory of her father."

"You are taking this very well, Sandrine."

"I am French," she smiled through her tears. "I live. I love."

 **Detroit - December 1944**

Althea Miller-Wachinski folded the letter and sank down on the couch. Isaac sat down next to her. She unfolded the letter again and read it a second time. Then she read it a third time.

She wept. Isaac waited until her soft crying stopped. She gazed into her husband's eyes, the words she wanted to utter unwilling to come from her mouth.

"You weep, but it is good news? What does Katrine say?"

He did not read the letter, instead he waited for her to tell him, to speak, at least say something to break the barrier which her words seemed unable to cross. She continued to sob softly. Isaac was patient, as he'd always been patient with her.

He'd seen her through most of her recent traumas, and even when her first husband died, he'd treated her, for Henry's death had been sudden and she'd needed medical care. He had loved her a long time, been the family doctor since her children were very young. Never, while her first husband was alive, had he intruded on a personal basis, always keeping his association with the family professional. So he watched her kids grow up, been there when Edward was struck with polio, helping to bring the twelve year old back from the brink of death.

He'd admired her strength, her inborn fortitude and firmness with her children, always there for them, always just there. Like the good mother she was, their needs always came before her own.

Winonah was the daughter who resembled her so much it was uncanny, and when she died, something in Althea seemed to die too. The boys resembled their father with their Native American roots, even the two grandsons. But Winonah was everyone's favourite child, full of life. When Edward married, Althea said to him, "Now I have another daughter."

Katrine's letter must contain overwhelming news, but Althea had vowed she'd tell him rather than let him read.

"Will you tell me now?" he asked.

Althea opened the letter and for the third or perhaps fourth time, began reading, her voice still unsteady.

 _Dear Madame Miller-Wachinski_

 _My name is Katrine du Pléssis. I am certain that you have been told about me by now. I know it sounds rather vain of me to say so, but I can assure you that I am not. Charles promised to call you from Paris. I can tell you he was a little reluctant to speak to you about us. It took some convincing but he finally agreed. I can also imagine he said very little!_

 _As you also know, my husband and daughter died when they were taken prisoner by the Germans in 1942. It was a difficult period for me, and would have been worse were it not for the few close friends I have._

 _I met Charles when his regiment came to St. Clair to liberate our town. I did not like him at first because I thought he was too bossy. I was leading a resistance group in the town and was used to my own style of leadership. Until I met him. He can be very forceful. I am sure you know that. And angry. Very angry._

 _He saved my life and for that I am forever grateful. I own a restaurant, the Coeur de Lion- heart of the lion - and I can tell you if anyone has the heart of a lion, it is your son. I did not think I could ever love another man after my dear Joseph died. I fell in love with Charles. He loves me._

 _In Paris he was injured, shot through the arm, as well as hit by a bullet that ricocheted off his helmet. It left him concussed and confused. He arrived at my home quite ill and remained here until he reported for duty again on the 7 of September at Verdun._

 _I love your son, Madame. On the fifth of September, the day after my late daughter Célestine's birthday, Charles and I were married in a civil ceremony in Paris. We had opposing views about whether we should tell you. I am sure when Charles called you, he did not tell you. I told him I would like to inform his family of our marriage._

 _My parents died during the great flu pandemic in 1920 when I was but seven years old. I was raised by a great-uncle in St. Clair and he died in 1942. All I have now is Charles and my greatest desire is to be a part of his family and to be a daughter to you._

 _Yours very sincerely_

 _Katrine du Pléssis-Miller_

Althea remained quiet for a long time after she read the letter. Isaac could only smile inwardly at his wife's elation. Since she'd heard from Edward that first time when Charles had written him and told them about Katrine, she'd been secretly wishing that Katrine and Charles would become very close. That they had married was an unbelievable, fantastic shock.

None of them knew Katrine beyond what they had been told by the scientists at Harvard who'd requested that Charles look up this beautiful woman and find out how she was doing. Edward told them Charles wrote so many superlatives in his letter, they wondered whether she was an angel! Charles certainly did more than that. He'd fallen in love with Katrine and they got married in Paris. What a delightful turn of events that was! They sensed that Katrine was kind, generous and very firm with Charles. He grinned again. Normally no one could tell Charles what to do or to decide for his life. Now a woman, tiny as they could discern from the photograph Edward had shown them, could speak her mind and subtly let Charles do things he was reluctant to do.

Charles was in love. This was going to be an interesting thing to see once he and Katrine were actually here. He gave a little snicker just at the thought of having a ringside view of the battles to come between the two of them.

"Why are you laughing, Isaac?" Althea asked, retrieving two pictures from the envelope. "Oh, look at them!"

She forgot momentarily admonishing her gentle husband and gazed at the photos. One showed Charles and Katrine, dressed in a beautiful peach coloured frock that hugged her bosom and accentuated her waist, against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. Charles was in dress uniform. The other showed them outside a magistrate's office, Charles holding Katrine so close to him that Althea had tears in her eyes again.

"I have a daughter," she said in a teary voice. "Two daughters..."

"You are happy, Althea, my Rose of Sharon."

"I am," she said, "I am very happy. Now Evan will have a mommy and Katrine a little boy."

 **Cologne, Germany March 22 1945**

 _Dear Charles_

 _I wish I could be with you, or you were home with me. I miss you so much, but I am French, I will survive. I have followed the news reports and watched newsreels, tracking the movement of the Allied forces through the Ardennes Forest. By the time you receive my letter, you are probably in Germany._

 _I have written your mother a letter because you wouldn't tell her we are married. What is so secretive about that? Is it because we have not known one another long and fell in love? War does that, I seem to think. Young people make impulsive decisions and marry. We have and I remember how you said, "Let's do something really crazy". Is it so crazy to want to be with your beloved forever? I think not. I hope your mother and her husband receive my letter well, because I asked that I be a part of your family as a daughter. Now don't smile! I can see your dimples forming. You like the idea? I do._

 _Anyway, I visited St. Clair again to draw up new documents regarding ownership of the Coeur de Lion. You are now part owner of the restaurant, which will require your signature as soon as you are back in France. Lamine, Solange and the two of us. I feel reassured by the new arrangements._

 _Brigitte gave birth to a beautiful little boy whom they named for you. Smile. You are famous, courageous and heroic. Everyone names their offspring after heroes. Charles Bertrand Beaumont. Doesn't that sound flowing? Brigitte and Berry are ecstatically happy, with Berry declaring his son will ride for France in the Olympics one day._

 _Lamine received your letter and informed a tearful Sandrine Desmarais that Eugene Linklater had died on the battlefield, that he was a hero saving another soldier's life and that you, my gentle, angry warrior, held him in his dying moments. Sandrine is carrying Eugene's child, did you know? When Brigitte asked her whether she was alright given that her loved one died, she said, "I am French. I live. I love." She also said that if her baby is a girl, she'll call her Eugenie. Please, could you write Eugene's parents about the child?_

 _The University of Paris has been superbly kind in giving me back my job. I started on the 1 October and am only now enjoying some vacation after a hard semester's work._

 _Please, write me! I miss you so much._

 _Your beloved_

 _Katrine_

Charles folded the letter and placed it inside his journal, in turn wrapping the book in plastic before putting it in his rucksack. He was collecting a growing number of letters and the phrase book Katrine had given him looked well thumbed. He learned and learned fast. Perhaps because he'd had a proficiency in studying Latin at school and University made learning another language easier. He hoped to conduct full conversations in French with Katrine once they were together again.

He hadn't wanted to tell his mother that he married Katrine. It was still too personal for him. They hadn't known each other long, but it was enough time to let love flourish deeply between them. He knew without a doubt that Katrine was the one for him, that she would love him as much as he loved her. Perhaps because they had both suffered terrible losses that there was greater depth and urgency in the way they connected to one another. Still, there were so many things they had to navigate, barriers to cross, but he felt confident that they'd be able to manage their lives.

He thought of the day they got married. They'd looked at the display of jewellery in a window and he'd seen the two rings. He'd felt instantly that the rings were meant for them. He wanted Katrine in his life, to grow old with her and she felt the same. In the deep of the night when she had nightmares, he'd sit up with her, whisper soft words of solace, cry with her until she fell asleep in his arms again. Sometimes he had nightmares, especially of his whole regiment being wiped out and he the only survivor. Yes, he was ready and Katrine was ready.

"Marry me, Katrine, and make me the happiest man in France."

The surprise in her eyes was instantly replaced by joy, for Katrine burst into tears and fell against him, in the middle of the Champs Élysées in front of not so curious onlookers. Why, they'd seen many proposals of marriage in public, Charles Miller and Katrine du Pléssis were not unique!

She was already wearing a pretty gown, and he was in dress uniform. They'd rushed home to get their documents and were at the nearest magistrate's office in less than an hour.

Katrine had given her little camera to a passer-by to take pictures of the two of them. They were happy. For once he didn't think two weeks or two months or two years ahead. The moment was what counted.

He was happy that she was back at the university teaching. He'd been in Joseph's surgery once and thought it looked more like a science laboratory.

He wasn't that much surprised that Eugene had fathered a child with Sandrine Desmarais. Eugene's mother would be informed, of that he was certain. The young soldier wouldn't have left St. Clair without giving his address to Sandrine.

He felt a warmth surge through him. Katrine did nothing by halves. He was now a part owner in a restaurant. He was proud of her, proud that she wanted to share her assets, the same as he would want to do for her. His Cadillac, almost brand new, was still in the garage of his home in Detroit. Evan was legally the owner of the car dealership which had belonged to his father and grandfather. As Evan's legal guardian and new parent, he'd have to make serious decisions on his son's part. But all that had to wait until the war was over and he was back in the States. Those were things he'd want to share with Katrine.

Sighing, he pulled himself back to the present, which was a makeshift tent serving as his office. The present was a makeshift tent serving as his office. They were roughly fifty miles outside Cologne, with still a long way to go. He had received his new orders, along with two promotions, first to Major then Lieutenant Colonel, ranks which he was deferring until hostilities had ended. His troops continued to call him "captain" since they were so used to addressing him that way and for now he was happy with that, although his pay grade changed.

He studied the paper which Colonel Drake had handed him, a directive from General Patton. Two regiments - the 10th and 11th - comprising almost 400 men had to advance to Buchenwald and liberate the camp. Other battalions were headed to other camps in Germany.

"Buchenwald, Captain?" asked his new second-in-command, Andrew Hemmings.

"We're about 217 miles from the Buchenwald camp. It's going to be a long slog. We'll take all available trucks and six wheelers. I don't think we'll meet with much resistance as the 9th and 91st have already advanced northwest and further east, heading for - "

"Berlin. The hub of German High Command."

"Yes. Now Buchenwald is a large camp, one of the largest in Germany. Mortality rate is high. Very few if any escapees. My - ." Miller paused, clamped his mouth shut.

"Your?"

"My wife's first husband and daughter were taken prisoner but killed before they even made it to the camps or cattle trucks. She was only informed months later of their deaths."

"That is sad," said Hemmings. "I have a cousin - half Jewish - who lived in Poland. After 1940 we lost contact and had no reason to believe that he survived Auschwitz."

"Yes. Katrine's daughter was half-Jewish but that didn't stop the Krauts from killing her too."

They were interrupted by the approach of Sgt Jeffrey Holling, his radioman, who put his equipment down before saluting.

"Yes, Holling?"

"News from Allied High Command, Captain - uh, Colonel!"

"'Captain' will do...for now..."

"Yes, sir! Sir, Buchenwald camp is a death camp. Inmates are incinerated after they die."

"I know that."

"Yes, sir. General Patton sends his regards and says to tell you to go kill them sons-of-bitches for murdering innocent men, women and children."

Hemmings looked at Miller and Charlie smiled broadly. Patton remembered him!

"He says to tell you to do him proud as an ugly American son-of-a-bitch."

"He really said that, Holling?"

"I'm only paraphrasing what he said, sir. He used more colourful language."

"Well, let him know we're going to do the US proud when we liberate the camps."

"Will do!" Holling saluted again before traipsing off with the equipment.

"I have to say it is a real honour working with you, Captain," said Hemmings.

"Don't thank me too soon, okay?"

"Are you kidding? Word about your exploits have spread through the regiments and other divisions. I twisted my colonel's arms to work alongside you."

Miller nodded, smiled and promptly removed Caesar's Gallic Wars from his top pocket. He opened at his favourite page and began reading in Latin, much to Hemmings' surprise.

 _Consuesse enim deos immortales, quo gravius homines ex commutatione rerum doleant, quos pro scelere eorum ulcisci velint, his secundiores interdum res et diuturniorem impunitatem concedere._

And Hemmings replied with "Huh?"

 **Buchenwald March 27 1944**

It smelled of old urine, old body odours, old walls, old excreta, old everything in the cell. He'd been rudely introduced to the unliveable conditions in the camp a few days after Christmas. Now all he could do was read, languish in squalor, read again and think of Daisy, of Zannah and of the day he almost killed Günther Götze. He wished he had killed Götze because that was how enraged he was that day. He would gladly have seized that dubious honour of doing something every other senior officer in Buchenwald had wanted to do for almost two years.

Love, he decided, could make a man do things he either regretted or rejoiced in if that deed meant saving the life of another human on earth. Mainly, he thought, the very belief that one should do no harm to a fellow being had been in his blood from a very early age. It was a principle he had lived by since he was able to stand up straight in his father's office one day, to explain why he didn't want to pull the wings off a butterfly. His father had nodded and said, "That is the law by which you live. Never forget that."

Since his childhood, he could not hurt or injure a fly, drown new-born puppies and kittens like he'd heard some people did or tear the wings from butterflies. Nor could he ever imagine that one man could be evil incarnate. That was what he always imagined as a child, that there must be some goodness in every man.

He learned the hard way that _der Führer_ , like many dictators in the history of mankind, could have honourable intentions which, when executed, resulted in the obliteration of a race or the degradation of humankind. But there was nothing honourable in which _der Führer_ contrived the enslaving and murder of so many thousands of people.

Surely there must be many who, like him, could not endure or accept participating in the practice of atrocities such as he had seen in Buchenwald? His brother Konrad was one of those who, like him, could not allow others to suffer.

Since he had been sent to Buchenwald, he had recoiled from these practices and had endeavoured to lessen the degree of abuse to which especially women in the camp had been subjected.

 _Mein Kampf._

They'd thrown the book into the cell after they'd thrown him into it, ordering him to read it in order to reacquaint himself with _der Führer's_ ideology, a philosophy he privately believed was flawed in its execution.

His incarceration in the camp's prison cell was not merely because he'd struck a superior officer, but because they'd roundly declared that Buchenwald had failed to harden him. He'd been sent in the first place because not even in the Jugend could they tarnish him with a nature so depraved; he'd gasped silently many times at the atrocities committed here. He was not a true son of the Reich they claimed, but merely a _freiherr_ who wanted to look the part and look good in the uniform of the _Wehrmacht._

Helmut sighed. He'd read the book over and over and tried to find a single motive that honoured Hitler, against the background of what was happening to the Jews, political prisoners, radicals, dissidents and Gypsies. Like the very reason they accused him of "looking the part", so the book became more and more the ideals of a deranged man.

He was to be released within days. Already he was told by Herr Schiller, the camp doctor, that a number of prisoners had escaped. He had known it would come to this. The Allied Forces were moving all over Germany was what Schiller told him. Soon they would enter Berlin and it would be all over. He'd heard from Schiller that the Allies had crossed the Rhine, that Germany's last natural barrier into its heartland had been breached.

What was happening to the inmates of the camp when many guards had already fled? What of Daisy and Zannah? He worried constantly about them. He hadn't seen Daisy since his incarceration. His last message to her had been that she keep Zannah safe. He dreamed often of them, especially Daisy whom he could not in all of creation turn away from him. What happened to her in the camp could not be held against her, for like every inmate, every political prisoner brought in on flimsy charges, every Jew and Gypsy, she had no way of defending herself and the choice to do so had been removed from her with ugly, terrifying aggression.

Sighing, Helmut thought about that day, three months ago, the day he'd told Daisy Ginsberg that he loved her, how his heart sang when she finally acknowledged her own feelings for him. Rudely interrupted by a shot being fired, they ran outside and witnessed terror in its ugliest form.

Never in his entire life had he been so blindingly angry...

 **December 26 1944**

Daisy stood in his arms and he felt how she shivered. He trembled too from the overwhelming emotion that filled his being. She felt so thin, yet she exuded strength. When the war was over, he was going to woo her properly and ask her to marry him.

He'd whispered into her hair "I love you..."

Then they heard a shot being fired.

" _Gott im Himmel!_ " he cried as Daisy practically jumped out of his embrace. She frowned heavily.

"It could be fired in the air, Helmut," she'd said.

"Or not."

That was when they both realised that Zannah had not returned from her violin lessons with Maestro Dobrinski who usually accompanied the child to his quarters.

"Zannah!" both of them cried out, hoping the shot fired had nothing to do with her.

Helmut walked out of his house, followed by Daisy.

"Stay here," he ordered her.

"No, I must see that Zannah is safe."

Helmut hesitated only a moment before he relented. They quickly made their way down the long road. In the distance they saw someone lying on the ground. His heart racing wildly, Helmut started running, Daisy following. When he reached the stricken man, he gave a sharp gasp. Snow had fallen during the night and blood was seeping into it, staining the white.

" _Mein Gott_! It is Maestro Dobrinski!"

Helmut paused long enough to note that Dobrinski had been shot through the head, blood still flowing from the bullet hole. Next to the dead man lay the Tononi Zannah always played, the case open.

"Zannah! Where is Zannah?" Daisy cried frantically. Some inmates on their side of the great fence were already sauntering towards them as Helmut got to his feet. Some of the women approached Daisy and nodded severely. She knew instantly that another plan had to be set into action, as soon as they found Zannah.

"Stay here, Daisy. I mean it!" Helmut ordered as he rushed to a certain house not far from where Dobrinski was shot.

It could only be Götze, the thought raced through him. None other. Most of the officers and enlisted soldiers had eased away from their crude acts against the women when they knew investigations were in progress. Götze had wanted Zannah from the very beginning. He'd given the child one look that day and decided she was to be his little torture toy. He had stopped Götze then. He was going to stop Götze again.

Helmut was out of breath when he reached Götze's abode, the snow crunching under his boots. Already he could hear Zannah's frantic weeping - a child in great pain.

"Götze! _Sie verrückt Bastard!_ he screamed as he kicked down the door of the house, heading straight for the bedroom. Officers' houses were all designed the same...

He had only an instant to register the scene in front of him. Zannah on the bed, her legs wide apart, the long furrows scored down her legs turning red, Götze unzipping his pants, a look of pure evil and lust on his face. Little Zannah, the beautiful child who played his Tononi like none he had ever heard, a little child who had no parents, an orphan in an orphan world, almost incoherent with fear.

"No! Please do not hurt me!" Zannah cried.

Something snapped in Helmut that moment. He forgot about butterfly wings, dead insects, drowning newborn puppies and kittens. He forgot the words of his dear departed father who instructed him that humanity could only aspire to its highest honour if it treated its animals and humans with love, caring and respect, things that would define him as a man if he made those attributes part of him.

Zannah lay splayed on the bed, Götze's hand burrowing between her thighs, his pants already halfway down his legs.

In one swift move Helmut covered the distance from the door to the bed, pulling Götze roughly off the child and dragging him outside into the road. Götze just about had time to pull up his pants as Helmut hauled him into the road. Across the way inmates look on in dazed curiosity. Two senior _Wehrmacht_ officers fighting over a child.

 _"Bastard!"_ he bellowed as Helmut pulled his arm far back and landed a sucker punch against his captain's jaw. Surprised by the force of the blow, Götze had little time to recover. When he did, Götze stared with shock just as the second hard blow landed against his jaw. Like a demon possessed, Helmut beat Götze, punching him over and over. Götze tried fighting back, but Helmut got more and more enraged, the captain's bloodied face a trigger that caused him to swear loudly before landing another blow with all his might. Helmut made sure his captain never reached for his Luger.

"She's only a child!" he cried as he floored Götze. "A child!"

"You had her too. Don't lie, Von Wangenheim! She was good between the legs!"

"Never! I never touched her, nor any other child, girl or boy, " _Du Missgeburt_!"

Helmut never noticed that Daisy had entered the house and came out with a sobbing Zannah whose legs were bleeding.

"You are a traitor!" Götze cried feebly. " _Ein Reichsverräter_! You deserve to die!"

"If it means saving a child from your corrupt clutches, I will gladly protect her with my life! A real pity I could not save every child in the camp who has been through your filthy hands!"

With that, Helmut landed one final punch in Götze's face. He could feel something break as Götze spit blood and then a tooth. With a sick moan he sank to the ground unconscious. Trembling with rage, Helmut straightened up and turned to look for Daisy and Zannah. Daisy had already vanished into Herr Doktor Schiller's medical ward with the sobbing child.

He rushed to Schiller's room where he saw Zannah lying on one of the beds, the doctor tending to the child.

"You know you will be put on report, Helmut."

"I know and I accept the consequences. I will tell you Herr Schiller, it has given me great pleasure beating that scum of the earth."

Daisy gave him a pained look as he touched Zannah's cheek. She continued to sob and when she saw Helmut standing so close to her, ignored her and the doctor and threw herself in Helmut's arms, weeping loudly. He felt the regret coursing through his body for not protecting Zannah enough. Now her safety meant more than taking lessons. Dobrinski was dead. No doubt there were other prisoners who possessed brilliant skills. Right now, Zannah's safety meant everything to him.

"Take care of her. Her lessons will have to stop for now. You understand what I am saying? I shall tell them that her injuries were so severe that she too died by Götze's hand."

Daisy nodded. "I know what to do, Helmut."

To which Schiller raised an eyebrow as he looked first at Daisy then at Helmut. Helmut smiled grimly as he reached to touch Daisy's cheek.

"Yes, it is what you think, Herr Schiller. Whatever the consequences, I pledge my love for her."

"That is good, Helmut, although I think your _grossmutter_ Adelheid would not have approved."

"I know. But _Grossmutter_ has passed on. We are in the world of the living. I make my own decisions."

Old Schiller nodded. "We are each entitled to love regardless of allegiances."

They had waited for Daisy to leave with Zannah, with medication to treat the deep scratches on her legs. He didn't want to know where the women took the children, but he felt reassured that Zannah would join them soon and she'd be cared for. He shuddered to think what would have happened had they not arrived at the scene, or arrived too late. Still, little Zannah had been traumatised by Götze's over eager fingers. He experienced that flash of anger again just thinking of Götze trying to rape the child.

Half an hour later Helmut was arrested. He went willingly, offering no resistance when Götze regained consciousness and beat the hell out of him, avenging him for losing face in front of all his junior officers. Helmut was thrown in a cell used for their own misbehaving soldiers. Although he'd struck a senior officer, he knew that was not why they threw him in jail. All of them, it seemed to him, had wanted Günther Götze disposed of and preferably dead. Götze, like his predecessor Karl-Otto Koch, should have been sentenced to death. Günther Götze was to them an embarrassment because he went too far.

Daisy Ginsberg was excited today. She'd heard from Herr Doktor Schiller through one of the women who worked for him that Helmut was to be freed within hours. She had been yearning for his release ever since he had been jailed that awful day in December when he almost beat that vile _Capitaine_ Götze to death.

If her opinion counted at all among the camp population of German staff and officers, she would have told them that she was glad the fiend got what he deserved. Truly deserved, although she would not have been so astounded if Götze had died that day in the heart of winter. She had only been able to glance at the evil man whose face had been beaten to a pulp. Her heart had rejoiced when she saw him so bloodied, so beaten, so afraid!

Afraid!

That was the emotion she had tried to divine ever since that day, a word or phrase which had eluded her for a long time, thinking what Götze looked like that day just before he'd dropped unconscious to the ground.

She had so many things to tell Helmut, although she also sensed that he knew of the turn of events at the camp during the last few days. He would be apprised of greater details once he had spoken to the camp Kommandant, Oberstleutnant Johann Gaertner. Kommandant Gaertner was a little like Helmut, his goodness not that very obvious to see. But he had made many concessions around the camp, although she understood in a way that the conditions did not improve much. In fact, they had worsened especially after some of the men in the barracks escaped.

Her heart had raced two days ago when she heard about their daring escape from Buchenwald, for they were not good men, she had been told. They were prisoners who had very few moral codes as one of the women told her. They too, had helped some of the German soldiers in raping the women. They were gone, but she was very concerned about what they'd do when they hit the nearest towns.

Before they escaped, some of the German officers also went missing from the camp. She was dying to know what Helmut thought of this new turn of events or what he knew. She'd wanted to bring Zannah from the little barracks where they were kept hidden but thought it better to leave her there. The situation had not changed for the better. Daisy doubted if it would.

She looked up at the sky. For early April in a new year, the sun was bright, spring was in the air. It felt to her that the women and men in the camp had suddenly woken from a deep slumber. She pulled her face. Deep slumber? Some of them never woke up, too ill, too emaciated, too mistreated, too susceptible to the viruses that plagued them every year. But she was glad the terror of the icy cold had seeped from her body. She raised her face to the sky, thanking God once again that she was alive. She remembered when she arrived at the camp, how she instructed Zannah to do whatever it took to stay live.

There was a lightness in her step when she entered the house of Helmut von Wangenheim. Then she gave a loud gasp of surprise.

"Helmut!"

There he stood, resplendent in uniform, at attention. His eyes were bluer than she remembered them, his hair flaxen, neatly brushed and parted at the side, exactly as _der Führer_ envisioned all his men in uniform. Her heart overflowed with love, a love she had never even dared to express. How could she? She was the whore of Buchenwald and he an aristocrat in the service of the Reich.

When he opened his arms, she rushed into them, drawn in a hug that nearly crushed the air from her lungs. But she did not mind if she had broken a rib. She was in his arms, inhaling his cologne. He held her in a close embrace for a long time. He'd missed her, was what she felt in the trembling of his body against her, in the way his lips pressed into her hair. Only this morning she had asked one of the women to help her with cleaning her hair, and a new dress the women had sewn. He would not let her go even when she began to wriggle in his arms.

"I cannot breathe," she complained happily.

"And I cannot get enough of you being in my arms at last."

"Please do not kill anyone soon so you'll be thrown back in that horrid jail!"

He held her away from him, looking deeply into her eyes. She gave a sob before lunging herself against him.

"I can see that you have missed me as I have missed you, _meine geliebte_."

She lifted her face to him, her eyes full of tears as his mouth descended gently on hers, a fire springing inside her, blinding sparks behind her closed eyelids. She gave a sob when he lifted her in his arms and carried her to his bedroom.

"You cannot know," he said, his voice trembling, "how I have dreamed every night and every day of you, lying as you are there, waiting for my body to join with yours."

And she looked up at him, her whole being ready to receive him, all the doubts, all the old things that had happened to her in the camp evaporated in the morning sun as he joined her on the bed.

The light filtered dimly through the window of his bedroom, even though it was only 0500 hours. Helmut lay awake, had been awake for a full half hour. Daisy lay snuggled against him, her breathing even, restful. Perhaps - and he knew it had to be so - she had never slept fully or properly or slept with the freedom of just being free.

It was different, now. A new world had opened up to them, one in which they briefly shifted the old woes and coming impediments aside. It was the now that mattered, the heady moments in which they rejoiced their new, exciting union.

He thought of the previous day when they had exploded together on his bed. She had lain there, much like he supposed her stance was for those Germans whom she serviced.

"We are equals in this, Daisy," he had said in a voice heavy with need for her.

"I know. Let me welcome you..."

He had known women, some of those who were willing to trade their bodies for nothing more than a loaf of bread, when he'd killed a few snakes and pulled the wings off a butterfly. By the time his eyes had opened, he knew that he'd steer forever away from those base acts which satisfied nothing but lust.

He'd looked at Daisy's naked body after she'd taken off her dress and after she'd taken off his jacket and pants. He experienced a sense of drowning in her beauty, her soft, taut skin, her clear, smooth thighs and legs. Only for an instant, as she lay with her arms above her head, had he seen her identification tattoo on her arm and remembered her position as an inmate. He had raised himself over her and closed his eyes as his lips pressed against the tattooed number.

"I love you, Daisy Ginsberg," he murmured as he nudged her legs. She'd given a cry as their bodies joined and all through their lovemaking she had wept brokenly as she found herself unable to contain her body's reaction to her orgasm.

Afterwards, she had rolled away from him and wept as he had not seen her weep before. He let her cry, for he knew that she would speak when she was ready. He had lain beside her and wondered at the magnificence of loving her.

Later she'd turned to face him, her eyes still teary but with a sheen of joy in them.

"For a long time, Helmut, my body did not belong to me. It was a tool, a vessel, you know?"

He'd nodded, his eyes without accusation, filled only with understanding.

"There was no feeling, no passion, no compassion. There was nothing. And sometimes I wondered if I would ever feel loved again, feel as though I could give my body willingly to a man who would take that body and worship it."

Then they had made love during the day and remained in the house. He had come out a day earlier and his duties would only resume today. Sighing, he pulled the still sleeping Daisy closer to him. Daisy only opened her eyes then gave a little whimper of pleasure as they felt the passion overtaking them again.

It was good, Helmut von Wangenheim decided, to love without reserve.

Over the next few days they enjoyed one another's company. Günther Götze was nowhere to be seen. Herr Doktor Schiller had been tight-lipped about the camp captain's whereabouts. "He will not trouble you again, if that is your concern, Helmut," the doctor had responded when Helmut asked him straight out. Helmut had nodded, only too glad because he thought Götze was afraid of him after that beating that day.

"You do not think he ran off with other soldiers, Helmut?"

"Then he is a bigger coward than I thought."

After which they closed the subject on Götze and went about enjoying themselves. Helmut still didn't want to know where all the children were, although he was assured of their safety.

They couldn't wait to be together in the evenings. They learned a lot about each other. Daisy had been a teacher of mathematics in a town outside Paris, married Victor Emmanuel when she was quite young. They had a daughter Suzannah whom they called Zannah for short. Her daughter had died before her very eyes. Sometimes, even now, almost three years later, she still dreamed of her child lying dead in the tall grass, blood spurting from a wound to her head. Suzannah was never a healthy child, her movements slow. They'd spotted easily that she would not be of any use to the cause of the Reich.

She accepted that Victor had died in the labour camps, that her life, such as it was, had to move forward without him. Now that Helmut was in her life, she feared nothing. Her friends in the barracks recognised her new status. They were not envious of her. Rather, they were more concerned about the homes they'd lost, all their property, their art works, jewellery, gold. Their concern was whether they'd be able to go home.

Her concern was that she made a new home for herself and Helmut. Who knew, one day they might even have a child!

Then one day he came home to tell her some news. The look on his face was serious. She was instantly worried, for it looked like he wanted to weep.

"What is it, Helmut?" she asked as she pressed him down on the couch.

"It is my brother. Konrad was a member of the Deutsche Cavalry Regiment." There was a long pause in which Helmut swallowed at the thickness in his throat.

"You have a brother?" she asked, surprised, for of all the things he told her, he never spoke about his family.

"He - he killed himself, Daisy, before the Allied troops entered the town. He...is dead..." Helmut repeated, as if he couldn't believe the news that had been given him by Oberstleutnant Johann Gaertner. "I did not think Konrad would do that..."

"I am very sorry to hear that, Helmut." She wanted to hug him, but he resisted her attempt to console him. Her hand dropped to her side, so she waited for him to speak again. He was clearly very unsettled by the news. It was war, he knew the risks, even if those risks involved the nearest and dearest.

"What will you do now? You have other family?"

"My mother Helga and sister Erika von Wangenheim. They live on the family estate in Munziger."

"You have an estate?"

He looked at her. Daisy wondered for a moment what went through his mind. Then he nodded.

"Where - where does that place us?" she asked, suddenly anxious about a future with him.

"I return to Munziger and run the estate, perhaps. I do not know, Daisy."

"Was Konrad the elder son?"

"Yes," he sighed.

"A Baron? Freiherr?"

"Yes."

"Do you inherit the title, Helmut?"

"Yes, Daisy."

She patted his thigh and gave a gentle smile, one that warmed his heart.

" _Les choses sont comme elles doivent être..."_ she said, her voice full of hope. Helmut looked at her, understanding her words.

He hugged her close and whispered, "It is as it should be..."

In that moment they heard a scuffle outside. Helmut experienced a feeling of déjà vu, a terrible feeling that though it would not be the same, it sounded the same. They heard people running, soldiers and inmates, soldiers shouting at the top of their lungs.

The rushed outside. Men were pointing to the lookout tower at the far end, near the Buchenwald gate. Then another shot rang out. Even from where they stood, Helmut could see the soldiers on duty hanging over the rail of the tower. They heard more shots and Helmut knew instinctively that all the other towers were targeted. How had they ignored the droning of aircraft overhead? The bombs landed at the far north end of the camp. Had they been so happy that they were not aware that the camp was under attack?

His brother's warning by telephone to him the day after his release was that the Allied troops were advancing faster than anyone realised. His brother Konrad von Wangenheim who preferred to kill himself than face any consequences of the war and their own part in it.

"What now, Helmut?" Daisy asked.

"Now you go to your barracks and stay with the women and the children they care for. It is the end, my beloved."

"The end?"

"For me. Pray for me, will you?"

They had no defense. If bombs hit the northern corner, then they'd destroyed the armaments factory and about a hundred German soldiers.

Kommandant Johann Gaertner had also come outside and joined Helmut.

"It is the end for us, Von Wangenheim. There is no point in fighting now."

"I understand, Herr Kommandant Gaertner."

"I am tired, Von Wangenheim. The end seems highly desirable."

Then the two most senior officers of Buchenwald waited as the Allied troops marched down the road from the Buchenwald gate.

END CHAPTER SIXTEEN


	18. Chapter 18

Warning" Some angst

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 _Recht Oder Unrecht-Mein Vaterland [Right or Wrong-My Country]_

 **Buchenwald forest - 11 April 1945**

Charles Anson Miller, lately promoted to lieutenant colonel, looked around him in wonder. They were trudging through the forest of Buchenwald along a road built by hundreds of prisoners of the Buchenwald Camp. Their troops had marched from the nearby town of Weimar where the railway station was the drop off point for the thousands of inmates brought to the camp.

The forest lay on a rise, more a gentle sloping hill called Ettersberg, and the concentration camp was situated at the top of the rise. It was a hot day for early spring - bright sunshine, clear blue skies, the warmth of the sun caressing their tired faces. Through the leaves of the beeches the sun's rays dappled their uniforms, creating a camouflage. The thought struck him in that moment - uniforms that mimicked dappled patches would be harder to spot. Something to think about for the future.

They'd covered more than two hundred miles from Cologne and were finally nearing their destination. Knowing that they were so close, the tiredness seemed to dissolve slowly, brought on more by the anticipation of engaging once again in combat. Their target was within spitting distance.

Struck by the beauty of the beech trees, Charlie thought the luscious bright green leaves proliferating everywhere could be the balm to a battered soul. Surely artists must have captured the trees with bluebells covering the ground on canvas, painting impressionist views of the splendour surrounding them.

The men were quiet, walking with measured steps, each step bringing them closer to the electrified wire fence that surrounded the camp. Their goal was to liberate the camp, yet not one of his men could ignore the grandeur of overhanging green curtains, verdant forest floors, bluebells everywhere. The urge to sit down and relax pondering on the nature of things, of higher planes of existence, of acknowledging God's work must have been uppermost in the minds of some of his men.

Yet two things disturbed the wonder of God's creation as he walked in the early afternoon, preferring to feel the ground under his feet.

The first was the heavy bombing by Allied planes over the area. Their target was the SS factories where thousands of prisoners had worked over the years. Miller hoped fervently that there were no inmates in the factories now, and that they didn't hit the barracks. He hoped that the factories were razed to rubble by the bombing. That way they could strike a heavy blow and weaken resistance before the two regiments entered the camp. The unholy noise and thunderous explosions were ear splitting.

As they came to a turn in the road, they all stopped dead and looked at the scene before them. "Holy mackerel! What in God's name happened here?" Compton asked.

"Execution by hanging," Miller replied as he looked at the rows of gallows. Some bodies were still swaying, the reek of rotting flesh assailing their nostrils.

"Goddammit!" Compton yelled again and Miller thought he heard a sob in the young soldier's voice.

"Remove the bodies!" he ordered. He then instructed some of the support soldiers to dig a grave to bury the camp prisoners, their striped uniforms that resembled pyjamas hanging in tatters on them. He heard Longman also swearing as they proceeded to take down the bodies.

Miller felt his old rage that mostly simmered rise and explode from him. His face hardened and a nerve twitched in his jaw. Tears, he thought, were wrong for this moment, wrong. Fury and every other feeling of outrage, yes. It was clear what had happened here, and not in this one instance only. Over the years, hundreds of inmates - the dead were all Jews judging by the two triangles superimposed as a yellow star - must have been hanged here. He noted absently the raised earth overgrown by blankets of bluebells, where his instinct told him were mass graves. Had the condemned been ordered to dig their own graves?

He looked at the prisoners, their bodies swaying in the light breeze that had sprung up. The natural decay had been worsened by birds that had pecked out their eyes. Miller closed his eyes an instant; images of those tall birches in the Ardennes Forest that remind him of Day of the Dead dolls assailed him, refusing to leave his angered state.

Around them the beech trees flourished in a canvas of bright green. Below them the forest floor was carpeted with bluebells in all their glory.

It was spring, Miller thought, the birth of all things in nature. The bluebells of Buchenwald trembled in stark contrast to the death that surrounded them. He wanted to bang his head against a tree and release some of his pent-up fury.

He needed Katrine. So badly. Just her presence would offer him solace. Men like Longman and Compton needed comforting right now. As with him, it was not death that troubled them, but the outrage that rows upon rows of innocent men were hanged because the Star of David offended _der Führer_.

Then above the din of bombers flying overhead, they heard a rush of footsteps. Just ahead of them, men in the familiar stark grey-green uniform of German SS officers slowed their pace when they saw Miller's men. Immediately they raised their rifles, but Miller was ready for them. He watched the officer in the front who looked to be the leader of the group. They were outnumbered. The smart thing for them to do would be to throw their hands up and surrender.

"Lower your weapons if you want to stay in one piece. You are outnumbered!" he barked at them.

Slowly they dropped their rifles, their hands gradually going up in the air.

"There are twelve of them, Captain," Hemmings whispered next to him.

They carefully approached the officers, Charles followed by Hemmings, Longman, Riley and Compton. Further behind them, the rest of A Company had their rifles trained on the Germans. Charlie looked at the insignias of the officer he thought was the leader. A captain whose lips curved in a sneer. Miller felt like banging the man's face with his rifle butt, but he held his temper.

"A captain and a coward. Let me guess - you're abandoning the camp. Things are getting too hot for you."

"That is our business - "

"What is your name, prisoner?"

The man had a haughty bearing. Charles was fast losing his temper. Handing his rifle to Hemmings, he grabbed the officer and shook him until his teeth chattered, then dropped him suddenly. Charles noted absently that a front tooth was missing. The officer lost his balance but regained it, still giving Miller a haughty look. This time Miller grabbed him by the lapels and head-butted him hard. Only then did he get an answer.

"Götze. Kapitän Günther Götze."

"Well, Götze, we're on our way to the camp. Fancy a ride?"

There was no response from them. They appeared shaken, afraid. They were out and out cowards, leaving the rest of their fellow officers and foot soldiers in the camp to fend off an Allied air attack. His troops collected the confiscated rifles and sidearms, throwing them on the back of the jeep.

Miller turned to Hemmings. "Tie them up and load them on one of the trucks."

Then they were escorted to the trucks in the rear-guard of the convoy. Miller blinked several times as he turned to look at their retreating backs. What the hell was going on at the camp? Germans leaving their posts, running away, leaving the inmates unprotected? He knew that many of the camp inmates were criminals, convicts doing hard labour. If those elements escaped from the camp, what would happen when they arrived at the nearest town?

He stayed until they had dug a grave big enough to bury all the bodies, but not before their ID numbers had been taken. Somewhere these unfortunate men had families who might have survived. He knew from the way Katrine had been in the months following Joseph and Célestine's deaths, that closure became difficult if they didn't know that a loved one had indeed died, that the body was buried somewhere.

An hour later, Hemmings reported to him. All the prisoners had been secured on a truck with a few of the B company men who would keep an eye on them. They were ready to leave again. On his signal, the men started marching, followed by the trucks, gun carriages and M8 combat vehicles.

Soon they were within sight of the electrified fences. Longman hurled a rock at the fence. There was no reaction. The bombers had done their work. The snipers began spreading out to various strategic points outside the camp.

Miller had his sight on the guard tower furthest north. There were two Germans there firing ineffectually at the bombers. Good, he thought. _You won't know what's coming_.

"Ready, Riley?"

"As I'll ever be, Captain.

"I'll take out the one on the left, you the right." He peered through his scope, adjusted the lens until the German's face came into view.

"On my mark...fire!"

They saw the two soldiers slump down.

"We've got them both, Captain."

"Now we move to the camp. I'll be in the second jeep!"

Miller's heart raced as they began moving off again towards the guardhouse gates of Buchenwald. If Joseph and Célestine had not been shot dead in France, they might have ended up here, he thought. Then again, by now they might not have survived either, although, had they lived, his heart would have been a torch song of hopeless love for a married woman. He shook his head so viciously that Elsevier, momentarily distracted, almost ran the jeep off the road.

"Watch out, Elsevier!"

"Anything wrong, Captain?"

"Nothing. Keep going."

To which Elsevier simply nodded and continued driving. Sighing, Miller sat back. He had gathered as much information as he could about Buchenwald, in fact, about all the camps in Germany. He'd figured that liberating the camps would be a major part of their offensives. The convoy entered a long curve before it straightened out again like a Roman road. Dead ahead in the distance he could see the entrance of Buchenwald.

 **Liberation of Buchenwald Concentration Camp 11 April 1945**

Buchenwald camp had been constructed in 1937, its entrance a stark gatehouse. The right side wing housed the camp jail or bunker for German soldiers tried and sentenced for serious misconduct. The left wing housed the SS administration offices. On top of the gatehouse was the main guard tower. Facing the inside of the camp, three guards had their machine guns trained on any prisoner attempting an escape. No doubt, Captain Charles Miller thought, those guards must have been kept pretty busy since the camp was first put into use. Now the main guardhouse appeared deserted, the guards taken out by the snipers from the two regiments. Miller made a mental note to request back-up in performing the mop-up operations.

Above the gatehouse, atop the main guard tower was a large clock. Miller had learned through radio contact that in the aftermath of the aerial bombing of the previous day and in the early hours of this morning, the clock had stopped at 3:15pm. They passed through the gate at 4:30pm. The wrought iron gate bore the inscription _Jedem das Seine._

"Elsevier..."

"It means _'to each his own'_ , Captain."

They paused just inside the gate. Miller raised his hand and waved it, indicating that the convoy move again. Dozens of the men simply kept on marching, their rifles primed to shoot. He didn't expect any heavy retaliation. He knew that more than three hundred German soldiers had been killed through the bombing of the last few days. So they simply drove through, crossing a very large square. He assumed it was a parade ground for inspections or roll call. Past the square they drove along a road that passed through the camp. On their right were barracks as far as the eye could see. On their left rows upon rows of houses, a hospital judging by the cross above the jamb of the door, officers' mess, soldiers, mess, wash houses, latrines for the soldiers, auxiliary buildings for ammunitions, provisions, clothing depot. He wondered where the crematorium was...

Elsevier handed him the loudhailer he'd retrieved from the back of the jeep.

Before he could even use the loudhailer, they came to a halt in front of two German officers who stood feet planted apart, their hands up. They carried no side-arms.

Charles jumped out of the jeep and approached them, one a lieutenant colonel and the other a first lieutenant if he read the insignia correctly. Their heads were bare. Their colouring was the opposite of Miller's black hair and eyes. They had the same stark blue eyes and flaxen blond hair as Robert Davis. If Miller could designate any profile on the men standing fearlessly in front of him, he'd say the German on the right was a true Aryan with an aristocratic bearing.

"We are only a hundred soldiers here, Captain," the lieutenant colonel said. "Many have died and a number have escaped. We surrender in the name of the Reich."

Miller nodded severely. "Who are you?"

"Oberstleutnant Johann Gaertner," answered the officer on the left.

"Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim - "

Miller frowned heavily as he looked at von Wangenheim. A sudden image of a young rider whose horse threw him on a water jump flashing. "A von Wangenheim," he said, "rode in the Berlin Olympics. Broke his collarbone if I remember correctly."

Von Wangenheim's lip twitched.

"My brother. He is dead."

Miller nodded. Then he turned to Hemmings.

"See that all the prisoners are rounded up. Find a place where they can be held while we sort out a dozen things here."

"Yes, sir, Captain, sir!" Hemmings yelled, saluted and clicked his heels. Miller heard him shout orders to the troops. Two gun carriages were stationed in front of the gate house.

"Take these officers and put them with those other cowards in that rear truck. They can exchange notes on cowardly behaviour."

Miller looked at von Wangenheim who still stood with his hands up.

"Relax, man, I won't shoot you, though don't think I won't. I'll break your neck if you try anything, you hear me?"

Gaertner nodded. Von Wangenheim gave a sigh of relief as one of the corporals escorted them to the truck. The other soldiers had begun to round up the rest of the Germans who seemed relieved to be finally caught and become prisoners of war under the Americans.

"Captain!"

"Yes, what is it, Longman?"

"Just heard from one of the prisoners on the truck that there was an uprising of inmates here. They took over the camp, just over an hour ago."

Could that be the reason the clock stopped at 3:15pm? Those inmates had paved the way for the Red Diamonds to enter Buchenwald without so much as a skip in a heartbeat.

"Thank you, Longman."

"Welcome, sir. Wish I could break them soldiers' necks. Maybe there will be reason once we've inspected the camp, right?

"Thank you. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir!"

In the distance, at the northern end of the camp, smoke still hovered from the shelling of armament buildings, some of those building inside the grounds of the camp, others on the outside.

A number of inmates had drifted to the fence that surrounded the barracks. They looked ill, emaciated, some men naked, women whose clothing hung like sacks on them. In those nearest to where he stood, he could see in their eyes a hope that had never died.

Germans who had surrendered but were employed in critical services were left to continue, though Miller instructed one of his men to stand guard in the kitchens, the hospital, the washrooms. He was tired and needed sleep badly, as did the regiments of the Red Diamonds.

In the next few hours, his counterpart in regiment 11 with other senior officers oversaw the organisation of the US presence in the camp. They used the last of their rations for dinner. Tents were erected, though he was dying to sleep on a mattress. On an impulse he entered one of the German officer's houses. Von Wangenheim, as the rank showed just above the door jamb. Those prisoners of war were already placed in the camp bunks and kept under guard. He could use a shower, shave and a good night's rest. Tomorrow was another day. He doubted that things could get better or worse overnight.

He entered the house, his eyes instantly drawn to an upright piano against a wall in the lounge, a stand with sheet music and a violin on a chair. He closed his eyes, in his mind an image of Célestine playing the violin in a photograph he had seen in Katrine's house.

An image of Katrine late one night after she had again woken from a disturbed sleep. He thought she'd had a nightmare again, but when he switched on the bedside lamp, her eyes were curiously elated.

"What is it, Katrine?"

"I know part of your offensives in Germany will be to liberate concentration camps."

How had she known?

"Yes, honey. But my love, you know I cannot resurrect Célestine - "

"I know. But there will be child survivors. Do not worry, I am still in the resistance. We have our ears on the ground."

"Children?" He'd experienced a sudden breathlessness.

"Children who are orphans. They will have nowhere to go..."

He'd understood instantly. She was going to rely on him to connect with an orphan child and bring her home to France.

Miller stepped into the bathroom of von Wangenheim's house where he showered, shaved and got into bed. Within minutes he tumbled into sleep, dreaming of a little girl who would take to him and trust him enough to be his daughter.

Miller shook the hand of the US journalist who'd arrived with a number of other dignitaries at the camp. Edward R. Morrow exuded that air often associated with journalists - barely controlled curiosity. He'd listened enough to Morrow on CBS radio to know the man was a professional. He would observe, make notes and not lose sight of his objectivity.

They'd rounded up the chief medical officer of the camp, recalled Gaertner, von Wangenheim and Götze who would escort them around the barracks. Götze glared at von Wangenheim who seemed to ignore him deliberately. Miller caught this silent exchange. Later he would speak to one of them, preferably Von Wangenheim.

Men and women stood against the fence regarding them with interest. Some smiled and waved, though Miller thought those smiles were wary, worried.

"I understand you are a full colonel now, Colonel Miller," Morrow said. "Word has gotten around about your exploits."

"No more than any other officer would have done."

"Dragging injured comrades out of the line of fire and placing your own life on the line, I'd say that deserves a medal."

He'd received radio communication from General Irwin that his rank had been upgraded to full colonel. He'd also been told in no uncertain terms that he had to use his rank, that his new rank insignia would arrive soon. A number of the regiment would receive their new promotions in an official parade in the camp.

"Tomorrow, Colonel Miller. And Colonel?"

"Yes, General?"

"Congratulations. You deserve it."

Miller sighed and nodded to Morrow. "Ready, Mister Morrow?"

"As I'll ever be."

Miller gestured to Gaertner, von Wangenheim and the doctor who'd introduced himself as Doctor Schiller that they were ready. Longman, Compton, Hemmings and Riley walked behind them and occasionally he heard them talk, with Compton's familiar "goddam" spicing his conversation.

They walked down the road and entered the first gate in the fence, now open permanently, passing a number of women and men who looked like they would drop dead any moment. They were literally skin and bone. Miller observed Morrow begin mentally cataloguing what he saw. They visited a barracks filled with Czechoslovaks; another barracks was situated deep in the forest glade, practically hidden from the view of German officers, soldiers and guards. They saw boys who looked ragged, their eyes full of hope. Miller tried hard to subdue his outrage, to maintain a facade of objective observation. He saw a little girl whom a woman said was six years old, but looked the age of a three year old child. They visited the crematorium and saw sickening mounds of bodies that lay in the sun.

He looked at the four Germans who escorted them around the camp and he had a hard time keeping his arms stiffly at his sides for fear of attacking and killing one of them by breaking his neck. Longman and Compton had become quiet. Knowing them, Miller wondered when one of them was going to explode in anger.

Four hours later Miller met Morrow in the administration building now used by the American contingent.

He noted Morrow had just completed his radio report. Morrow handed him a paper.

"Here, read this."

Miller began reading Morrow's report.

 _[I] asked to see one of the barracks. It happened to be occupied by Czechoslovaks. When I entered, men crowded around, tried to lift me to their shoulders. They were too weak. Many of them could not get out of bed. I was told that this building had once stabled 80 horses. There were 1200 men in it, five to a bunk. The stink was beyond all description._

 _They called the doctor. We inspected his records. There were only names in the little black book — nothing more — nothing about who had been where, what he had done or hoped. Behind the names of those who had died, there was a cross. I counted them. They totalled 242 — 242 out of 1200, in one month._

 _As we walked out into the courtyard, a man fell dead. Two others, they must have been over 60, were crawling toward the latrine. I saw it, but will not describe it._

 _In another part of the camp they showed me the children, hundreds of them. Some were only 6 years old. One rolled up his sleeves, showed me his number. It was tattooed on his arm. B-6030, it was. The others showed me their numbers. They will carry them till they die. An elderly man standing beside me said: "The children — enemies of the state!" I could see their ribs through their thin shirts..._

 _We went to the hospital. It was full. The doctor told me that 200 had died the day before. I asked the cause of death. He shrugged and said: "tuberculosis, starvation, fatigue and there are many who have no desire to live. It is very difficult." He pulled back the blanket from a man's feet to show me how swollen they were. The man was dead. Most of the patients could not move._

 _I asked to see the kitchen. It was clean. The German in charge...showed me the daily ration. One piece of brown bread about as thick as your thumb, on top of it a piece of margarine as big as three sticks of chewing gum. That, and a little stew, was what they received every 24 hours. He had a chart on the wall. Very complicated it was. There were little red tabs scattered through it. He said that was to indicate each 10 men who died. He had to account for the rations and he added: "We're very efficient here."_

 _We proceeded to the small courtyard. The wall adjoined what had been a stable or garage. We entered. It was floored with concrete. There were two rows of bodies stacked up like cordwood. They were thin and very white. Some of the bodies were terribly bruised; though there seemed to be little flesh to bruise. Some had been shot through the head, but they bled but little._

 _I arrived at the conclusion that all that was mortal of more than 500 men and boys lay there in two neat piles. There was a German trailer, which must have contained another 50, but it wasn't possible to count them. The clothing was piled in a heap against the wall. It appeared that most of the men and boys had died of starvation; they had not been executed._

 _But the manner of death seemed unimportant. Murder had been done at Buchenwald. God alone knows how many men and boys have died there during the last 12 years. Thursday, I was told that there were more than 20,000 in the camp. There had been as many as 60,000. Where are they now?_

 _I pray you to believe what I have said about Buchenwald. I reported what I saw and heard, but only part of it. For most of it, I have no words._

 _If I have offended you by this rather mild account of Buchenwald, I'm not in the least sorry..._

 **The Buchenwald Report** by **Edward R. Morrow**

As Miller read Morrow's report, he felt a sting behind his eyelids. He'd walked with the reporter; every inch that Morrow covered, he covered too. There was no way he could say "This did not happen" or "Morrow is lying" or refute any of what Morrow saw. He had witnessed everything with the journalist who had struggled at times to remain objective.

How could one remain objective? How? Men died as they walked, their moment of freedom only fleeting as they died. Every breath of hope that had been within them, of going home, of being with those family members, who might have survived, died with them. Whole families brought into the camp never made it. They died from disease and privation, from exhaustion so total it was difficult to stand up. The emaciated inmates touched his arm with skeletal fingers, their eye sockets deep, their eyes grateful.

The Germans seemed to imagine that what was being witnessed by outsiders was normal. Normal within the framework of a herrenvolk ideal. They never showed any emotion, although one moment, when they saw the children, a nerve twitched in von Wangenheim's jaw.

Miller closed his eyes as he recalled his visit to the crematorium. Hundreds of naked bodies, just like Morrow described lay in the morning sun. He'd had a flashing image of the bluebell woodlands of Buchenwald forest and the stark contrast with death and destruction all around them.

Compton had touched the ankle of one of the bodies. "Goddammit, Colonel! They are stacked here like cord wood. It's inhumane, it's criminal! They have no shame!" And Compton had turned to face Gaertner, von Wangenheim and Doctor Schiller when he spewed his outrage.

Some of his men had stepped to one side and retched their guts out. He had felt the bile rising in his throat and worked to prevent himself from vomiting. The German officers and the doctor had looked on dispassionately, as if they'd distanced themselves from the atrocities they themselves had created or allowed to happen.

But it was Francis Longman's tirade that mirrored his own pain and anger today. He had simply voiced the outrage of every American who had looked at the naked bodies.

"Holy mackerel!" Beanpole Compton had cried out when they saw the two heaps of bodies. According to the doctor there must have been five hundred of them.

Bone white, as if every drop of blood had been drained from their bodies, they lay neatly stacked, just like Compton's image of piles of cord wood. On a trailer the Germans had simply thrown the bodies of about fifty more inmates. They too looked bloodless and white. Some were shot though the head, others simply died from hunger and privation, dropping dead from standing for hours in the sun. Again images like those snow covered birches in the Ardennes assailed him, Day of the Dead dolls with their eyes gouged out by birds.

Longman's voice cracked close to him, the suddenness of his expletive startling him and the others.

"What have you done, you bunch of fucking bastards!" Longman yelled at the German officers. Von Wangenheim jumped back as the distraught soldier looked to hit him with the butt of his rifle. Longman waved his arms at them in wild abandon, then at the dead men on the trailer and the heaps.

"They are people! They were humans like you and me! What the fuck have you done! Were they different? What was their crime? That they were Jews and Gypsies? They had eyes, ears, noses, heads and brains like you rats! They were given a will by God! A will which you destroyed! What right had you to imagine you were a god? No wait, let me answer that, you sick fucks. God would not let any human suffer by your perverse hands. It's a sin! A sin, you hear me? You want to be a herrenvolk? Fuck you all! They were sons, fathers and grandfathers, someone's brother, just like you have. You were mindless idiots that followed a greater idiot blindly! At the very least you could have afforded them some dignity! I treat my animals better than you have treated these poor souls. You could have made a difference, but let me tell you something!"

Tears spattered from Longman's face. He didn't care and they didn't stop him. He was every soldier's voice, even Morrow's.

"When you are given power, even a little bit of it, you abuse that power. You use it to rape, torture, kill mindlessly because you think no one is watching. You get a thrill from shooting a prisoner through the head. Yes, a thrill! You laugh, you joke about it with your buddies how you shot an old man through the head. Then you throw him on a truck and cremate him. Why, you sickos? Because there are a lot more where they were taken from! Power changes you from a man with balls to one whose mind is evil, who contrives the vilest torture imaginable and then you enjoy seeing a man, woman or child squirm!"

Longman lunged at von Wangenheim who jumped out of the way.

"This is extermination, you bastards! This is murder! And these are crimes you have committed. Yes, crimes! Crimes against humanity!"

Longman had stopped abruptly, out of breath. He fell down on his knees and wept hard tears.

Miller approached the distraught soldier and pulled him up. Even in that state, Longman clicked his heels and saluted. He didn't apologise for his outburst.

"I am not like them, Colonel. We are not like them. We won't punish them in kind, right? That would make us equal to the vermin they are!"

Then Longman pulled himself away from Miller and stood in front of Gaertner.

"I am not like you!"

Yes, Miller thought as he finished reading Morrow's report, it had been a difficult four hours. Other similar reports were emerging from other camps. It was a horrifying story.

"Thank you. Any more graphic and it would lose your listeners.

"No doubt." Morrow's eyes appeared sunken, but fired up with the same outrage Longman had displayed today.

'Well, I will leave you for now. There's a lot to be done here. Those Germans will spend the next few days cleaning those latrines, mass graves to be dug, the children to be seen to."

"You go, Colonel. I'll be okay here."

Miller nodded and left the office, glad to be outside again, to feel the sun on his face. Then he walked towards the house - Von Wangenheim's - to prepare for the next phase of operations in the camp.

"Are we free now?" Zannah asked as Daisy brushed her hair into soft, shiny curls that fanned her face.

"Yes, we are. Please hold your head still."

"I can brush my own hair."

"I know you can, my little bird. But I love doing this."

"Will you get my Tononi?"

Daisy paused in a brush stroke. She sighed. She was no longer allowed in the house that once was Helmut's quarters. But the violin was still there. She'd have to ask for it. Even though they were free and could go home, her heart raced madly having to face the stern officer - she heard they called him "Colonel" - who looked like he could twist the neck of every German he saw.

"That man - he is a colonel? Are you afraid of him?"

"He does not smile. His face is not friendly!" Daisy complained.

"He looks friendly to me, Maman Daisy. I am not afraid of him!"

"Then you go and ask for your Tononi!"

Zannah swung round, her eyes wide, now looking a little afraid. Daisy could not help but smile.

"Oh, no! What if he will hurt me?"

"I do not think so, sweet Zannah. These American soldiers follow rules. You do not have to worry!"

"Will you get the Tononi?"

"Yes. I'll get it for you. Then you can rehearse with the camp orchestra."

They had received instructions from the Americans to play at the parade. They wanted Zannah to be their solo violinist.

"I am sorry Maestro Dobrinski died."

"Me too. But do not despair, sweet Zannah. Maestro is in heaven. Did you know Klaus Schumann was first violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra?"

"Yes! Maestro Dobrinski told me of every person who can play an instrument. They used to play when we went to roll call in the mornings."

"Let us not think of the bad things now, Zannah."

"What will happen to the children?"

Daisy had finished Zannah's hair and turned the young child to face her.

"I really do not know. I would like to take you with me, and perhaps another girl whose whole family died - "

"I still think of my Maman. I dream every night about her."

"You think your Maman might be alive?"

Zannah nodded, her face suddenly creasing, her eyes filling with tears. Daisy pulled her close. She'd seen that vile Blériot strike Zannah's mother a glancing blow across the face, saw her collapsing in a heap. She'd appeared dead. To a child's mind that could very well have been the situation.

"I want to find out, Maman Daisy."

"Then we can go to Paris and try to find out, okay?"

A smile brightened the child's features, as if the sun shone in her eyes again. Hope, Daisy thought, was so easy to plant in anyone, especially a child who was receptive to it. It was what kept them both alive. She was happy for herself that she had fought so hard to survive. Everything that happened, the worse things, could now be shelved and remain hidden. Sighing, she looked at her arm, the ID number glaring at her. Closing her eyes, Daisy wondered whether she'd ever be allowed to forget.

"Will you fetch the Tononi now?" Zannah asked.

"You stay here. I'll go."

The children's barracks were clean now, with a bunk for each child. Extra blankets had arrived which the Americans had organised. Zannah was safe at last.

Her heart in her throat, Daisy made her way to the house now occupied by The Colonel.

Charles found a recording he wanted to listen to. A piano sonata by Domenico Scarlatti. Von Wangenheim had an impressive collection, almost as good as that swine he'd killed in St. Clair. Miller experienced only a twinge of guilt as he placed the record and wound up the phonograph. He'd make sure von Wangenheim's belongings would be sent to his home. Katrine had asked him about Glenn Gould, the genius kid playing the Scarlatti.

The music filled the room, melodic notes sounding like little gems bouncing over rocks in a river. He sat down on the couch, letting the melody seep into his mind. The ache he'd walked with for hours after witnessing the conditions in the camp, the hardships, the bodies on a trailer were slowly replaced by a new ache in his heart - the beauty of music.

Like this he had sat on Katrine's couch listening with his eyes closed, at peace with the world around him. Katrine and music - they were good for him. Scarlatti sounded good, the kid genius creating magic with black and white keys, organising octaves into harmony, pleasant pearls that made the old woes leave, even if reluctantly.

Yet the new ache deepened and he knew it had to do with Katrine who was never far from him. Katrine who was in spirit right beside him, encouraging him, offering solace, telling him littles wondrous legends of warriors and eagles. He could hear her voice piercing the Scarlatti.

"You wish I should tell you the legend again?"

"Only to hear your voice. It sounds miraculous."

"You are not listening to the story?"

"Katrine, I could listen to your voice all day. Sometimes I am jealous because I am not with you to hear you speak. It heals me, did you know?"

Then Katrine would look curiously at him, arch an eyebrow and say, "I am sure I will understand one day."

Katrine. He missed her, her laughter, her nearness, her touch. A sting behind his eyelids made him berate himself for becoming morbid. With the back of his hand he wiped fiercely at his eyes, leaning his head against the upper backrest.

Right at that moment there was a soft knock on the door. Miller frowned heavily at the intrusion. He'd put a young private to guard the entrance. Who could get past the guard? Sighing, he rose and stopped the recording. Glenn Gould and Scarlatti would have to wait another day.

He walked to the door, pausing again as he contemplated who his visitor could be. When he opened the door, a woman stood there, a woman with curly black hair, clear dark grey eyes, but sunken cheeks as if she hadn't eaten properly in years.

She looked scared. Did he scowl? Did the horror of what they'd witnessed today still remain etched on his face? The poor woman looked like she wanted to run away. An ID number was tattooed on the inside of her forearm, just above the wrist.

"How may I help you?" he asked, then belatedly waved his hand that she enter. She took a slow step across the threshold and remained standing just inside the door.

"Can I help you?" he asked again, this time in French. He saw her give a great sigh, the fear leaving her face.

"My name is Daisy Ginsberg. You - you were playing Scarlatti."

"That I did. Next question, you know that because you've been in this house before?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Colonel Miller, as I'm sure you know by now, Daisy Ginsberg. Were you von Wangenheim's lover?"

It was a shot in the dark. Daisy blushed furiously, then nodded, too embarrassed to look up.

"Ah, that explains Scarlatti."

"He played it often. Mostly piano sonatas, Colonel Miller."

"I won't bite. Now, you came here for something, I take it?"

"In two days we've heard the generals will arrive. The soldiers told us they will honour those with promotions and great deeds of bravery."

"I know."

"We have a little orchestra."

"And?"

"One of the members used to use Helmut's violin to practise. I was asked to collect the violin."

"This member is close to you both?" Another shot in the dark.

"Yes, sir."

"Fine."

Charles turned to the music stand, took the sheet music as well as other sheets that were lying on top of the piano. Then he took the violin and handed it to her.

"Thank you, Colonel. The young lady will be glad to be playing the Tononi again."

"Tononi?"

"This violin is an eighteenth century instrument."

Charles nodded. He knew nothing about violins and made a mental note to ask Katrine about them. She would know. She knew everything except how to row a boat.

"Does this instrument come back to the house?"

"Herr von Wangenheim said Zannah could have it because - because he - "

"Would most likely be tried, found guilty and be executed?"

Miller was unprepared for Daisy's reaction.

"Helmut is innocent of all the crimes others have committed here!"

"Well, the judge and jury will decide that. You came here for the Tononi. Let's leave it at that."

He knew he sounded unnecessarily harsh, but the Germans in the camp were all prisoners of war and some of them, like that Götze they caught running away, would be tried. Götze definitely came across as an individual that would have committed atrocities, all the things Longman had accused them of.

Daisy was breathing heavily as she exited the house, as if she was in a hurry to get away from him. He didn't mean to scare or upset her, but he had work to do, a lot of work. It was perhaps also useful to speak to a prisoner of war called Helmut von Wangenheim.

 **Paris Saturday 14 April 1945**

Her students had all been more than willing to come in on Saturdays to work on trials to support their course work. They'd lost much impetus because of the war but were focused enough to come in to put in the extra time. They were catching up fast, as Katrine noted, not wishing to miss anything. Budding scientists had no problem working nights!

Katrine sat on a high stool in the laboratory of the Science Faculty, carefully balancing a test tube in one hand and a receptacle in the other. Carefully she poured the fluid into the narrow beaker. Once the liquid mixed with the powder in the beaker, she gave a satisfied grin. The experiment was working. At first the mixture stalled then slowly created an effervescent surge that reached the top of the beaker, but not spilling over.

At other benches and tables, her students were busy with their own tests. If they were successful, they could herald another breakthrough in the field of biomedicine. Joseph had always believed drugs like penicillin were wonder drugs, but they'd found that some patients had developed a reaction to it. Perhaps, if they could create a buffer, like another innocuous elixir, they could reduce the danger. Also, they'd be able to formulate it in oral form.

"For now, we focus on beating a disease like typhoid fever," she'd told her students at the beginning of the semester.

They were an enthusiastic group of second year students who worked very hard. Since the university reopened, they had been inundated with students new and old who wanted to resume their studies. She looked about her, silently observing their work. They were ordered, disciplined, dedicated, bent on catching up on work lost.

Sighing, she sat staring at the beakers filled with various liquids. She'd had the dream again last night, or was it in the early hours of the morning? When she woke in a great sweat, gasping for air, she realised she was in Célestine's bed. She'd taken to sleeping in her daughter's room. Then she'd wept again for her little girl as well as Charles who wasn't there to comfort her. He'd hold her in his arms and then whisper softly that things would get better, that as long as he was there, he'd be the eagle carrying her on his wings. Most nights she'd succeed in becoming calm again, but she missed him constantly. In her dream Célestine would talk to her.

" _Maman,_ I am cold."

Celestine would look at her with large, pleading eyes. Funny how she never had tears in those expressive eyes.

"But the sun is shining, my little goldenbird. How can you be cold?"

"It is in my heart," she'd say, placing her small palm on her chest. "The cold is here."

"How can I warm your heart? You are so far away."

"I never left you, _Maman_."

"Never? How is it that I miss you so? Look, I sleep in your bed. Can you not feel my body close to yours?"

"No, please, come!"

"I am coming. I am walking towards you. Don't move."

Then the scene would change dramatically from warm sunshine near a beach, or on the banks of the Seine, to a field of tall grass, a clearing in a wooded area. It would be dark and cold, snow drifting noiselessly from the low clouds to earth. Célestine would stand there, knee deep in the snow, her hand reaching for her mother.

"Help me, _Maman_!"

"Don't move! Stay there..."

Then Katrine would take slow, careful steps through the snow covered grass to where Célestine was standing. As she approached, her daughter would suddenly stop talking, just staring at her with her wide eyes, her mouth slightly open.

"I am here. Take my hand - "

In that moment the breeze would lift her hair fanning her face. Face? That was no face. There was a gaping hole, a bullet hole against her temple. The figure would change before her eyes to a skeleton, with black eye sockets and no eyes.

In great fear Katrine would rock awake, gasping for breath.

Like this morning. How many times had she had this nightmare? Every week? Every few days? It seemed to her that Célestine visited her every night - a small child with a floral pinafore that turned into a skeleton as Katrine approached her. Her rational mind told her that Célestine was dead. They'd recovered her body in an isolated forest clearing and buried the remains in the Paris cemetery. So why was she having these terrible nightmares in which Célestine haunted her, looking like Katrine had last seen her in the pretty light pinafore?

" _Professeur_...?

She visibly shook herself to the present when one of the students spoke. Katrine looked at her dazedly.

"I am sorry. I haven't slept very well. Please continue."

The student nodded and returned to her station.

Sighing again, she berated herself for descending into such gloom. She continued with her trials, hoping that by the end of another week she and her students would have reached a conclusion to their testing.

She was still busy working with test tubes, writing down her findings when suddenly, a sharp stabbing pain ripped across her bosom. Clutching her chest, she tried to cry out but the sharpness was so severe that it knocked her breath from her. Her head began to swim, the dizziness overtaking her. She grasped the bench with one hand, while still clutching her bosom with the other.

Katrine gave a sharp little cry, images of Charles and Célestine flashing before her. She heard someone shout. It wasn't Charles or Célestine. One of her students? The room was spinning as she tried desperately to hold on to the table, but a deep black cloud overtook her, causing her to sail off the stool. She landed on the floor, giving a soft sigh as she lost control of herself, sinking into a deep oblivion.

When Katrine came to, she blinked in the bright light that filled the room. Frowning, she tried to move her head, but the action caused mild discomfort. A nurse stood at the foot of the bed, studying a chart. Touching her face, then her bosom, somewhat confused, she wondered what she was doing here. She was in a hospital, that was certain, but why? The pain in her chest registered only as a dim throbbing.

"Nurse?"

The young woman looked up. She had a friendly face, an unflustered demeanour.

"Ah, our patient is awake at last."

"What happened to me?"

"We have to wait for Doctor Blanchet, Madame Miller. He will be here shortly to fill you in on your condition."

Condition? What was wrong with her? Katrine realised it was pointless insisting on answers from the nurse who might not have the authority to diagnose. She knew from Joseph's hospital visits and surgery at home that he was always the one to deliver good news or bad. No, the nurse was simply doing her duty.

"How long have I been here?"

"Ah, Madame Miller, you arrived this morning at 11am. We sent your students home. They were worried when you collapsed in the laboratory."

Finished with the chart, the nurse replaced it and moved briskly to another bed. Katrine lay thinking about the moment when she'd had the attack. The pain had been excruciating and all that flashed were images of Célestine and Charles. Was it because she had been so preoccupied thinking about them? She lay quite still, afraid to move lest the pain return. Very gingerly she raised her left hand and gave a sigh of relief when she experienced no pain.

Were Charles and Célestine the reason for her collapse? She missed him with her very breath. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. Why couldn't she stop thinking about them? It felt so real, those images of Célestine, her bright laughter lighting up the room. Célestine playing her precious violin, Célestine concentrating as she played a difficult Bach piece.

"And why the tears, Madame Miller?" a voice sounded up next to her.

Embarrassed that she'd been caught crying, she wiped the tears from her cheek.

" _Docteur_?"

"Blanchet. You gave us a scare, but let me assure you immediately that you are fine now. We ran a standard ECG to determine whether you had a heart attack."

"It wasn't a heart attack?"

"No. But a sudden excitable event can cause something quite close. Your heart is fine. Tell me, were you shocked by anything?"

Katrine thought about the time in the laboratory. There was nothing that could have brought on something so cataclysmic as palpitation that caused her heart to beat arrhythmically. They had been progressing steadily and very, very carefully, the work ground-breaking but not so that her whole system would shut down for a while.

"No...no," she replied. "Nothing. Although - " She stopped suddenly, trying to bring something into perspective, a tease at the rim of her consciousness.

"What is it?" Blanchet asked as he took her pulse, frowning as he felt it racing.

"I dreamed last night, of my daughter. She's dead but it felt to me as if she called me. Could it be that?"

"Possibly, but not likely. This was very sudden, as your students testified. One moment you were sitting up and the next you collapsed on the floor."

Katrine shook her head, unable to think, for just thinking gave her a headache.

"May I ask, Madame Miller. Your husband?"

"He is an American, an officer of the Allied Forces. By now they are in Germany. I've been able to track their advancements only by radio and newsreels. I don't know where he is at this point in time."

"Well, you know that the concentration camps have been liberated. Could he be there?"

She thought how Charles was always very security conscious about divulging the regiment's movements. She accepted that. The letters were few and far between, but she knew he would never let her down. She believed that he was still alive beating the enemy back or overpowering them. She gave a sigh. She hoped he would call her some time. It was possible that his troops had reached one of the concentration camps.

"It is very possible," she acknowledged. "The Russians have advanced from the east and have already liberated Auschwitz in January. Much death and degradation there."

"Perhaps," Dr Blanchet said, smiling, "your heart is beating with his as one. Your bond is very strong!"

Katrine smiled, then nodded. She felt much better.

"Can I go home, Doctor?"

"You suffered serious palpitations, abnormal for one so young, brought on by stress or sudden longing. Perhaps a late reaction to your nightmares?"

She nodded, promising herself that she'd have to stop dreaming about Célestine, though how she could do that was another question, she decided as she left the hospital an hour later, prescription in hand. She'd pick up her medication later. Right now, she wanted to go home, lie on Célestine's bed and think of Charles.

It was late afternoon when Katrine finally arrived home after she'd collected her medication. She was tired, and if she admitted it to herself, still felt the slight murmuring in her bosom, as if her heart skipped a beat forcibly reminding her of her husband and daughter.

She breathed in deeply, relieved at the absence of the stabbing pain she'd experienced this morning. She put on some music, this time, a Mozart violin concerto, played by Yehudi Menuhin, closing her eyes as she relaxed on the couch. Katrine realised she hadn't eaten for most of the day, so she headed for the kitchen where she fixed herself a light meal.

When she had finished, she walked about the house, pacing in the lounge, stopping to look at pictures, opening the lid of the upright piano. Her heart began racing again. Katrine wondered if she hadn't been discharged too early from the hospital. A light pain lingered in her bosom. Closing her eyes, she tried to will away the feeling of being chased by an unknown foe. The walls of her house seemed to be closing in on her.

" _Charles_ , if only you were here to calm the storms in me."

Katrine moved about the house, first to the room where Lamine used to sleep, then the lounge again, the kitchen, Joseph's surgery which now resembled more a science lab, her bedroom. She rushed out quickly, remembering how Charles made love to her there, how he loved her. When she entered Célestine's room, she was overcome with a strange feeling, as if her daughter's spirit lingered there.

"Why do you haunt my dreams so, my child? Why do you raise the hope in me again when I know there is none?

Later she relaxed in her tub, filled to the brim with warm, soapy water. Katrine lay back, soaking in the warmth, sighing when at last the heaviness, the dread, the hope that Célestine could beyond all possibility, beyond all fantastical reality, walk into the bathroom and say, "Can I sit in the bath with _Maman_?" Célestine used to ask her, the pleasant memory relieving the feeling of sadness.

Her eyes stung as an image of Célestine, so clear she could touch the child, came before her. She rose abrubtly, dried herself and berated herself once again for being so melancholy. Dressing quickly, she grabbed her purse and went outside. She drove to the city centre, to one of the cinemas where she could catch some newsreels, perhaps find out how far Charles's regiments had advanced into Germany. Halfway through _Casablanca_ , however, she got up abruptly and left the cinema.

When she returned home, she changed into her sleepwear, deciding to sleep again in Célestine's room. It was only 9pm, still very early by French standards. She gave a deep sigh as she wormed herself under the blanket and relaxed, the haunting images slowly dissipating.

She was almost asleep when the ring of a telephone penetrated her consciousness. It rang sharp and strident. At first Katrine thought she was dreaming until she rocked awake and jumped out of the bed. She rushed barefoot to Joseph's surgery where the phone was located, out of breath when she virtually grabbed the receiver from the hook.

"Madame Katrine du Pléssis-Miller?" a thin female voice asked.

"Yes."

"Could you hold the line for Colonel Charles Miller?"

END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A/N: The Buchenwald Report is the actual report quoted here in this chapter. Edward R. Morrow was the warp correspondent for CBS. There was no way I could have duplicated so exactly what Morrow had written, so decided to quote it intact. _vanhunks_


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 **Buchenwald Saturday 14 April 1945**

Saturday morning broke with a clear sky and a sun that hovered just above the horizon. It was going to be a fine day, Colonel Charles Miller thought as he prepared to dress for the parades. Soldiers of the 10th and 11th regiments would be honoured with new promotions for their acts of bravery as well as honouring those who died in battle.

The inmates had begun to leave after the second day, and now only two thousand remained of whom there were numerous children, the youngest of them a boy of four. Charles remembered Katrine's directive to him, to connect to a child who needed a home. That was a reality. Many of the children were orphans who had no family to return to. His troops assigned to that task had returned with harrowing stories of camp prostitution, rape, the use of children as sex toys. And every time, one name cropped up whenever they spoke of these atrocities.

Kapitän Günther Götze.

A malicious, cold-blooded officer by all accounts. He would be tried, there was no doubt about that. Von Wangenheim and Gaertner appeared to have tried their best to minimise the atrocities committed in the camp. His own express order to his troops was that none of the prisoners of war be targets of reprisals either by American troops or the inmates in the camp. He had a heavy guard posted at the camp prison to prevent such attacks taking place. Longman was right. There was no use for the eye-for-an-eye behaviour. They had to show they were better than that. Justice had to be seen to be done, even though every fibre of his being screamed retaliation.

He stood in front of a small mirror fixing his tie, grinning as he remembered Katrine doing a much better job of it. She'd stand in front of him and kiss him after she'd knotted the tie.

"No kiss for me this time..."

He smoothed down his dress jacket, a smart blue-grey garment. No longer a captain, the twin bars on his lapels were now missing. New pins as well as the insignia of the American eagle would be pinned on him during the promotions ceremony. The ribbon racks were pinned on his left chest, just above the pocket.

"There, that should do it," he murmured as he once again smoothed his hair. General F. Wilson Erikson and Maj. Gen. Joshua Muldoon had arrived the previous night. They'd dined together in the officers' dining room amid general high spirits. It seemed everyone wanted an end to the war. It _was_ nearly the end of the war.

"Once we take Berlin, it's all over, Colonel Miller."

"How long will we need?"

"Less than a month, I'm sure."

"Beware of the Soviets making their way west," he'd parried last night. It was a cold thought that had sprung up immediately after he spoke.

"We just have to get there before they do."

And he'd wondered about that, since the Russians had already liberated camps in Poland. But Muldoon was right. Taking Berlin, the seat of the German High Command, the war would be over. Then they could go home and rest for a month. He was dying to get home, do a masters course in military science and archaeology. He wanted Katrine to be with him. That was another issue. Would she return with him to the United States?

He tried pushing that thought away from him. Once he saw her again, they could simply rejoice in being together at last and think about setting up a home somewhere. He hoped it would be in America. He hoped to have children with her, to give young Evan a baby brother or sister. But he was always going to be a military man. Wherever he was posted in peace time, Katrine would be with him, he hoped.

Charles tapped his top left pocket. _Caesar's Gallic Wars_ was safe, along with the photos he'd placed within its pages. On an impulse, he took out the book and removed the one photo he'd loved to look at on those dark nights in the Ardennes forest when missing her had become too much. The picture he'd rescued when Katrine had swept the photos off the mantelpiece.

Mother and daughter. So beautiful and so alike, both smiling into the camera, their eyes alive. He recalled how Katrine's eyes were dark and unhappy when he'd first met her. Then he wondered, as he always did, how Célestine's eyes had looked after they were captured. Dark, expressive, unhappy eyes. He longed for Katrine and prayed again for the thousandth time that Célestine was alive, that Katrine and Célestine could be happy at last.

Charles shook his head to dispel the negative thoughts, placing the photo back between the pages of the book, inserting it once again where he was always comfortable carrying it. The day they had landed in France at Sugar Red Beach in July last year seemed a lifetime away. Since then, they'd been fighting in every major town, fought their way through dense Ardennes forests, captured Remagen, slowly inched eastward to central Germany.

A soft knock on his door alerted him to the present. He turned and walked into the lounge. A Beethoven concerto was playing softly in the background.

"Come."

The door opened and a young private stood there, shaking a little by the looks of it. He saluted stiffly.

"Everything's been set, Colonel. The proceedings will begin in ten minutes."

"Thank you."

At 10:30am, the parade was about to start. Two rows of chairs divided by a narrow aisle were reserved for the dignitaries who'd arrived to attend the ceremony. They occupied the first row. The second row was left vacant. Those who would not be receiving promotions and other accolades sat in the next rows. To the left of the American contingent was a large square where inmates were seated. On the other side of the main group sat the German prisoners of war, under heavy guard.

Miller smiled grimly. In front of that group sat the German doctors, Gaertner the camp commander, von Wangenheim and Götze. They looked subdued. Two days ago they'd been forced to witness the burial of the dead inmates in a mass grave. Two rabbis and their own chaplains had conducted a short service to give the dead a dignified final resting place. He'd seen von Wangenheim's eyes fill with tears. He still had not been able to speak to him.

Behind the standing group of soldiers and officers a small orchestra was seated. The piano that had been removed from von Wangenheim's quarters earlier in the morning stood at one side, but close to the main group of performers. It had surprised him to learn that the camp had an orchestra, that they'd played frequently for visiting German dignitaries, or for the camp staff. He'd also heard through his troops that they played after roll call on most mornings. They'd told him winter was the worst when they made the poor inmates stand in the cold or snow until the camp staff saw fit to inspect them. It was also where Götze never hesitated to shoot anyone who sank to the ground or looked sick or who tried to protect a fellow inmate.

Two other officers were to receive their new ranks of colonel, from the 9th Armoured Infantry and from their own 10th and 11th regiments. Others would be elevated to majors, captains, and all the ranks for the enlisted soldiers.

The heat was stifling and he itched to scratch his neck just below the collar where his tie pinched him. So he stood quite still at attention, letting the discomfort pass, trying to remember if he shined his shoes properly the morning, or whether a hair was out of place.

Major General Muldoon called the names of each soldier and pinned his new insignia on him. He smiled when Hemmings accepted his new rank of captain, Longman and Compton serving with their new ranks of corporal and Elsevier skipping staff sergeant to sergeant. He was proud of his men. They deserved their promotions. Miller doubted whether he'd have anyone better to serve under him.

His heart thumped wildly when his name was called.

"Colonel Charles Anson Miller..." Muldoon's voice droned.

Charles clicked his heels and stiffly stepped forward, saluting the two generals.

"We honour Colonel Charles Anson Miller today with a well deserved promotion to the rank of colonel. A man of many talents as some of you might know. Back in '36 he represented the United States at the Olympics in Berlin as coxswain of the University of Washington's rowing eights. Might I remind you all that the US took gold in that event, that even then Colonel Miller as team coxswain displayed all the qualities that defined the spirit of leadership. Congratulations, Colonel."

"Thank you, General Erikson."

Then Charles saluted again and stepped back. Once he'd re-joined the group for the next phase, Corporal Compton whispered, "Congratulations, Colonel. I shall miss the captain!"

He smiled, then listened carefully while some of the soldiers of the group were awarded honours for valour, acts of bravery during the conflicts of the last months, in fact, since they'd landed at Sugar Red Beach. He glanced very quickly at the new insignia above the ribbon track, an American eagle, and smiled again as he thought of the legends Katrine had told him on that fateful night he'd stumbled into her home.

He rocked to attention when his name was called again. General Erikson spoke warmly of Miller's accomplishments.

"In the face of adversity, Colonel Miller has acted with distinction and valour. He saved the life of a private who had been in danger of drowning. We learned of his acts of bravery during the Battle of Vidouville where he stepped in the line of fire to protect a seriously injured soldier. During the Battle of Remagen, Colonel Miller once again placed his own life in danger by dragging an injured comrade to safety while under heavy fire from the enemy. These acts of bravery, most particularly the last mentioned, is are deserving of the highest honour for bravery in battle. We have pleasure in awarding Colonel Charles Anson Miller the Congressional Medal of Honour. We give him here only a small pin because, as many of you know, this honour is awarded personally by the President of the United States."

Charles stepped forward to stand in front of General Erikson, a soldier who had himself been the recipient of the medal and saluted. He felt like he wanted to weep. He knew this rare honour would be repeated in a formal ceremony at the White House in the new year, once he was home.

He stepped back, saluted again and turned to join the rest of the group.

"Please be seated, officers and soldiers," Major General Muldoon ordered.

Charles knew he was to take the first seat in the second row. He would get a good view of the rest of the proceedings, which had been preceded by a short service by a rabbi, one of the freed inmates and two of their own chaplains. Now the orchestra was preparing to set their instruments. One violinist, he had been informed, was a member of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. The other inmates were all former members of orchestras. Could the person who would play von Wangenheim's Tononi also have been a member of an orchestra?

He remembered thinking how so much talent had been lost in the concentration camps. There were novelists, journalists, scientists, French aristocrats, medical doctors, philosophers, politicians, prime ministers and mayors of cities, and many who were instrumentalists, conductors of orchestras, teachers, mathematicians... All who had died needlessly, whose bodies had lain in forgotten heaps like trash thrown out on the weekend.

He was hoping to see the person who'd be playing the violin that was in von Wangenheim's house. Daisy Ginsberg had sounded secretive. Could it be someone related to her? He hadn't wanted to scare her further because she looked as if she thought he was going to throttle her.

He simply couldn't rest. Since he'd left Paris, his sleep had always been broken, punctuated by nightmares. His appearance tended to scare some of the inmates.

Charles sighed as he took the little book from his top pocket to immerse himself in Latin until he could hear the orchestra launch into the first strains of a Mozart concerto. He felt a thump against his arm from Hemmings who sat next to him.

"You just cussed under your breath, Colonel."

"Latin."

"Oops."

Hemmings shut up and appeared to lose himself in the music. Charles listened while he kept his eyes on the Latin texts. He'd played a recording of this same violin concerto in Katrine's home, both in St. Clair and Paris. She'd always tell him how Célestine loved to play the solo pieces. His attention was still on the book when his ears pricked and he began to listen in earnest when the violin soloist entered in perfect harmony, thin, breathy, the vibrato confident, contained but well balanced.

Damned good violinist. Perhaps the one playing the Tononi.

"Holy mackerel!" Compton's voice sounded up. "It's a goddam little girl playing like God himself put his music in her heart!"

Only then did Charles look up. His view was blocked by the giant frame of Major General Muldoon, so he shifted a little to the left to see the players. The conductor stood on a little dais, but to his right a child had stood up to play the solo.

A gigantic fist from a great height punched him on the chest, so hard that his heart almost stopped. The child was stroking the violin in soft piano until the notes grew in strength - thin, sweet, then majestically rising to a crescendo that wrung beauty from the strings such as only the gods bestowed on humans. The piece was a classic, Mozart masterfully entrusted in the hands of a skilled expert. Every stroke, every reedy draw of the bow over the strings capturing pain and heartache and joy in one lingering glissando.

Once Katrine had asked him about Glenn Gould. He'd told her he'd listened to the kid genius on the radio. This, this what he was hearing, what every American in the camp and every inmate and every prisoner of war was hearing was surely God's voice speaking through a child. Not a single atonal sound could be heard as everyone was caught up in the miracle of hearing something sublime, something miraculous from the hands of a young girl.

Her face was turned away from him, focused on the sheet music and the baton of the conductor. Charles wanted to weep, for here was talent in abundance, talent that would have gone wasted had the Allies not arrived.

Then the child looked towards the audience.

Her eyes connected with his.

Charles gasped as the giant hammer struck his heart in relentless blows. He could not look away from those eyes piercing his own.

She was small, her frame dainty. Rich auburn curly hair framed her face. Eyes which even from this distance, appeared blue-grey. When she smiled at him, her mouth lifted in a curve at the corner.

"Holy mackerel!" Compton exclaimed again. "The kid looks like someone I know!"

Miller felt a blinding flash behind his eyes, so searing that he gave a little cry. It left him lightheaded, breathless. He was losing control. The flashes continued unabated, driving out the divine music, even the face of the child. He tried sitting up, but couldn't move from the bent over position into which the erratic thumping of his heart forced him. He had to get up, he had to get away from here...

In a sudden jerking movement he forced himself to a standing position, scraping the chair as he did so, a drunken effort that alerted Hemmings and Compton. Charles looked at the child again.

The same eyes, the same hair, the same face, the same smile. With trembling fingers, he opened the photo and stared into the face of Katrine and Célestine, mother and daughter. Same face, same eyes... He tried folding the photo and placing it again between the pages of _Caesar's Gallic Wars_ , managing at last to put it in his top pocket.

There could simply be no mistaking the face of the child.

She was not a figment. She was not a spirit doll come rising from a grave to him. She was not an orphan in an orphan world. If anything, this child was the embodiment of man's instinct to survive. She was the daughter of Katrine, his beloved, with whom he sometimes wept when she dreamed of her dead child. She was not dead!

She was Célestine.

Then the nausea hit him. Nausea, faintness, the urge to weep, the hard hammering of his heart beating rhythmically, overtook him. He clutched his chest, trying to rub away the extreme pain. He gave an agonised cry as he tried to breathe, the pain so severe that darkness began to descend on him.

"Colonel!" someone shouted as he stumbled away from the group, looking for an entrance, anywhere he could be away from the crowd and think. Think! He found his way to the administration offices, the nearest building from where they were seated.

Once inside, Charles Miller succumbed to the overwhelming trauma of losing consciousness.

"Maman Daisy, that - that Colonel Miller, he is sick."

"I know. I think the music upset him. But you played so beautifully, how can anyone be sick?"

"While I was playing, I looked at him. And then his eyes went wide, like he was shocked."

"Perhaps you remind him of someone very dear to him."

Zannah smiled. She loved Maman Daisy who was very wise, who taught her how to take care of herself, who taught her mathematics. But she still missed her own mother.

"I think maybe I remind him of someone he knows. Maybe we could ask Colonel Miller to find out."

"Find out what, dear Zannah?"

"Perhaps he could tell us what happened to poor _Maman_..."

"Oh, Zannah! Do you still think you can hope?"

"Maman Daisy, you taught me that hope is all we have to keep us alive!"

"I said that, didn't I? Now, do you think we should visit Colonel Charles Anson Miller in the infirmary?"

"Oh, no! He looks very stern!"

"Do not let that bother you. Do you remember how Herr von Wangenheim also looked so stern in the beginning and how frightened you were of him?"

Zannah nodded vigorously. Daisy laughed. Things were looking up for them. In three days time, she would be taken to Weimar where she would board a train and head for Paris - a two day journey. There she had friends who would put her up until she could find her own place to stay, perhaps start teaching again. She wanted to take Zannah with her. Who knew, one day Helmut might be free and join them. Then they could be a family. Zannah needed convincing, else she'd be sent somewhere strange, where she would be adopted by strangers. Daisy hated that thought, of Zannah going to live with strangers.

But first she had to see if she could speak with Colonel Miller. Even if only to ascertain once and for all that Zannah's real mother had died, was buried somewhere, so that the child could get closure and focus on living and being happy.

Charles woke with the sensation that the sharp pain in his chest had subsided. He breathed, relieved that he could do so without any discomfort. He looked about him, saw uniformed nurses going about their duties, tending to other inmates on the road to recovery.

He was in the camp infirmary. The old German doctor had been called to do duty along with their own medical personnel. Many of the inmates were malnourished, on the brink of death. Doctor Schiller looked up, saw that Charles was observing him. Schiller hurried to him, a broad smile on his face.

"Ah, I see our patient is awake!"

"What happened?"

"You suffered severe palpitations, arrhythmic heartbeats that caused your system to shut down."

"It was not a regular heart attack?"

"No, fortunately for you, Colonel Miller. You are as healthy as a horse and strong as an ox."

Charles rubbed his neck. "How long was I out?"

"Well, let's see. The orchestra was playing and young Zannah did the solo. She saw you sitting there. I was told she looked at you, then you became distressed. That was 11am."

"What time is it now?"

"It is afternoon, Colonel. It has just gone past two," Herr Doktor Schiller said as he took his patient's pulse.

He was out that long? He touched his chest, the unbearable pain gone. Could a child have had such a devastating effect on him? The child _was_ Célestine, of that he was absolutely one hundred percent certain. There could be no doubt. So the question that filled his mind was, how did she survive? How did Célestine cheat death? How did she land at Buchenwald and not one of the other camps like Belsen or Dachau?

The constant self-interrogation gave him a new headache. He had to see the child. He had to know, once and for all. What if, in all of creation, he could be wrong, that the child was not Célestine? So he got up and pulled the screen around the bed. His uniform lay neatly folded on a chair next to the bed.

"Colonel! Please, you should not move about now. The ECG - "

"Proved I am okay. There is nothing wrong with my heart."

"Yes, but - but - " the old doctor blustered.

"Doctor, I'm getting out of here. Try and stop me."

He gave the doctor a glare that challenged to the medic to stop him. Then another doctor - one of their own - parted the screen.

"I see Colonel Miller is discharging himself."

"See? See?" Doctor Schiller crowed. "You cannot leave yet."

"The only thing I see is that I am fine now."

"It is clear we will not convince Colonel Miller to remain in the infirmary for another couple of hours. He has recovered from the fainting fit - "

"Doc, I do not faint!"

"Yes, I understand. You are well enough to be discharged. Sign here, Colonel."

To which he hastily appended his signature on the proffered form. He left the infirmary and headed straight for his quarters that once belonged to von Wangenheim.

He had to speak to a few people, get hold of the child whom the doctor referred to as Zannah. His heart raced again but this time in anticipation. He needed to see the child, find how she survived. Ask her pointed questions, perhaps ask straight out whether she was Célestine. The likeness, though, was too real, too astonishing to be mere coincidence.

Once he entered the house, he fixed himself something to eat, realising belatedly that he was hungry. Also belatedly he noticed the piano that had stood outside while the orchestra was playing, was now back in its usual spot. It was something, he thought, he'd want to do for von Wangenheim. It was the German's personal property. If von Wangenheim was going to be imprisoned, then he would arrange to have the piano transported to his home.

He opened the door and stood on the top step.

"Delaney!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Come inside. There's something I want you to do."

Daisy Ginsberg studied the few children in front of her. They were all between the ages of eight and ten years old, girls and boys. They were the most proficient in Mathematics and Science. For the past hour they'd been busy learning new concepts as best as she could remember from the syllabi with which she had been acquainted before she arrived at the camp.

They'd managed to keep a little school going, the most important subjects taught by various inmates who were qualified teachers. Zannah was the most proficient with English, which had improved steadily during her time at the camp. Most of the group was on par with Mathematics and the sciences. For the rest they'd all be able to catch up once they were reintegrated into their respective schools.

It had been a stroke of inspiration on Helmut's part when he suggested that the girls most at risk of being targets in the prostitution rings be kept in hiding. He didn't want to know where so that he'd have a plausible excuse, such as they'd died and were buried in the soft turf at the end of the camp near the outer boundary. During the last months, many German soldiers defected from the camp, or were not as diligent as at the beginning, becoming slack in their guarding of the barracks and inmates. The inmates could move about almost nonchalantly.

Her gaze fixed on Zannah who was always so eager to participate in the lessons especially science in which she was above average. Zannah looked up and smiled back before she dropped her gaze again to focus on the work.

A few minutes later, they all looked up when there was a disturbance at the entrance of the barracks. Women scurried about, their old fear of being tossed about by Germans still lingering. When they saw it was one of the American soldiers, they sighed with relief.

He stood just inside the doors of the barracks, looking around. The barracks had been cleaned and looked much better than when the Germans were in charge and smelled a whole lot better, too.

Daisy was glad that the soldier didn't pull his nose like many of the visitors to the camp had. She closed the book from which she'd been working, waiting for the soldier to speak.

"I am looking for the kid who played the violin solo this morning," he shouted so everyone could hear him.

"Maman Daisy," Zannah whispered. "I am afraid."

"Do not be. I will go with you."

She walked with Zannah to where the soldier was standing, his feet planted apart, hands behind his back, a stern look on his face.

"This is the child," Daisy informed him. "She is my daughter. I must go with her."

"Fine. Colonel Miller wants an adult to accompany her. Follow me."

Daisy sighed. Were all soldiers so military-minded that they never smiled? They walked behind him, almost running because he was moving so fast. They passed other freed inmates who were sitting around playing chess, some playing their instruments. Others were busy in deep conversation, probably making arrangements to leave the camp permanently.

"Please," Daisy began as she and Zannah hurried behind him, "why does the colonel wish to speak with my daughter?"

"I do not know. It is none of my business what he wants with the child."

"He must not hurt her."

"I can assure you that hurting anyone in non-combative time that combat is furthest from the colonel's mind." When he stopped abruptly to look at them, they practically bumped into him. "Do not insult my superior," he added.

So they kept quiet as they followed the soldier to von Wangenheim's house. For a moment Daisy felt sad because Helmut no longer lived in the house that had been the home for her and Zannah. Now they were merely formal visitors. She wondered what Colonel Miller wanted. Could he, like many of the inmates, have been so taken by Zannah's wonderful expertise on the violin that he wanted to hear her play again?

"Zannah," she whispered to the child, "if he asks, then you are my daughter, you understand?"

"Yes, _Maman_."

But Zannah's heart was racing. What did the colonel want? Did he want her to play the violin for him? Who would accompany her on the piano then? She did not want to stop playing! She was a little afraid of him, only because she thought he might hurt her.

When they reached von Wangenheim's house, they were very surprised to see Helmut von Wangenheim standing outside. He looked tired, Daisy thought, tired and dispirited.

"Helmut!" Daisy exclaimed softly. " _Qu'est-ce que tu fais ici_ ?"

"I was ordered by Colonel Miller to report here. I suppose you got the same message?"

Daisy nodded. "Please, when he asks, Zannah is my daughter," she whispered with a desperate air. She was afraid that they might lose Zannah. The child had kept her alive and she'd kept Zannah alive. She couldn't lose her now.

Zannah was glad to see him and rushed forward to hold his hand. Von Wangenheim smiled grimly before he released Zannah's hand. He went up the step first and knocked.

Charles Miller, still in his dress uniform, heard the knock and stepped from the bedroom into the lounge. It was a moment he dreaded, but also anticipated, filling him with excitement. Still, he couldn't smile, he couldn't rejoice yet. He'd asked von Wangenheim to be present as well, since the three appeared to be connected in some way. The child played with the German's violin, Daisy Ginsberg was von Wangenheim's lover and ostensibly the parent of the child.

He had heard and read the reports of the atrocities that had occurred at the camp since 1940. He knew of the previous camp Kommandant Karl Koch who had been sentenced to death for committing many of the crimes. The accounts of the prostitution rings were hair raising.

Was Zannah a victim? One of the torture toys? A flash of anger filled him as he walked to the front door and opened it. There stood von Wangenheim, with Daisy Ginsberg and the child on the step below him.

"Colonel, you have requested our presence here," said von Wangenheim.

Even dressed in rags, von Wangenheim had an aristocratic bearing. His eyes were very blue as he stared fearlessly at Miller.

Miller waved his hand indicating that they step inside.

"Sit down, please," he said as they hesitated inside the door. When Zannah headed for the couch, he stopped her. "No, you, little lady, can sit in that armchair."

Zannah flinched as she sat down in the armchair while Daisy and von Wangenheim sat down on the couch. Miller had taken the piano stool and seated himself, facing three pairs of eyes on him, each with a different expression in them. He felt that stab of pain again in his chest. Zannah... There was no doubt it was Célestine, but he had to establish the truth. He thought she looked scared, while Daisy appeared apprehensive. Von Wangenheim looked confused.

Miller penned Daisy with a piercing look.

"Who is this child?"

"She is my daughter, Zannah Ginsberg."

Daisy looked at von Wangenheim who nodded in agreement. Miller shook his head making Daisy look very scared. He moved the stool, placing it in front of Zannah, facing the child. Zannah shrank back.

" _Douce enfant, je ne vais pas te faire de mal, d'accord?_ " Miller spoke in French. Zannah's eyes grew as wide as saucers. Miller continued in French. "Now, I know this woman here said you are her daughter, but I can tell you that you are _not_ her daughter."

" _Maman_?" Zannah said softly, looking at Daisy for help. Daisy's eyes filled with tears as she nodded.

Miller glanced at Daisy. "That is the truth, isn't it? She is not your daughter."

"No, Colonel, she is not," Daisy said softly.

He turned to face Zannah again. The child's eyes were downcast. " _Regarde moi, mon enfant_."

Slowly she looked at him, her blue-grey eyes almost his undoing. Charles felt the familiar thumping against his chest, so be breathed deeply to calm himself.

"Your name," Charles began, continuing in French, "is Célestine Héloise du Pléssis-Blumenthal. Your mother's name is Katrine du Pléssis-Blumenthal. Is that true?"

Célestine's face creased as she nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek. Charles took both her hands in his.

He turned to Daisy again.

"Did you know her name is Célestine?"

"Yes, Colonel. I only wanted to protect her..."

Charles nodded before facing the child again.

" _E_ _t, Célestine_ , I have good news for you. _T_ _a Maman est vivante, tu m'entends_? Your mommy is alive and she misses you every single day."

He watched Célestine's expression change to wonder and her eyes grew soft. They filled slowly with tears that rolled hotly down her cheeks. She gave a sob and threw herself against him.

Von Wangenheim and Daisy looked on in astonishment at the turn of events. They waited while Célestine wept brokenly.

When Miller released her, his eyes were filled with tears too. He removed the little book from his top pocket and slipped the photo from it. A picture he'd taken from Katrine's home in St. Clair on an impulse, not knowing what he was going to do with it except just stare at it from time to time. Now it had become a critical piece of evidence as he unfolded the photo and showed it to Célestine.

She smiled and sobbed and smiled as she looked at her mother. Impulsively she kissed Katrine's smiling face. Then she fired what Miller thought was the million dollar question.

"How do you know my _maman_?"

Charles glanced back at the other two who sat shocked, Célestine's question mirrored in their eyes. He handed them the photo. Then he turned to Célestine again. He took her hands in his again.

"Tell me about your papa."

Her eyes turned sad and dark as she recalled the memory.

"My papa died. They shot him."

"Your mommy was alone for a long time after your papa died. She searched everywhere for you. Then she went to St. Clair. That is where I met your mommy, Célestine."

"Is she in St. Clair?"

"No, sweetie. Your mommy returned to Paris only last year, in September."

"You know her?"

"Oh, yes. I know her very well, indeed! Very well. Célestine, do you see this ring?"

Charles held his left hand so that Célestine could see the ring. She nodded, then looked at him, a question in her eyes.

"Your mommy has the same ring. See, when I met your mom, we fell in love, even though I knew how much she missed you."

"You married my _maman_?"

Charles smiled, relief swamping him as Célestine framed her question like someone who seemed pleased.

"Oh, yes, we got married in Paris, on the 5th of September, a day after - after - "

"My birthday!"

"Yes. We celebrated your birthday. Look here - "

Then Charles fished in his pocket again for the little book. From it he pulled two pictures. One with him and Katrine on the day they married, and the other a birthday cake with nine candles. Célestine gave another little sob and hugged him tightly.

Charles sighed deeply as Célestine sat back again.

"Can I go home now?"

"Sweetie, there are a few things I need to complete first. Then I shall take you to Paris in one of our army jeeps. Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes. Can - can I take the Tononi?" she asked, looking at Helmut.

Helmut nodded. "I cannot play that instrument as well as you can, Zan - Célestine. Please take good care of it for me, will you?"

"Oh, yes, I will!"

Charles rose from the stool and opened the door. He called Delaney inside.

"Célestine, this is Corporal Delaney. He will take you to the barracks again. I must speak with Madame Ginsberg and Herr von Wangenheim."

"You won't forget?"

"No, I won't," Charles said, smiling.

"Are you my papa now?" she asked, smiling with Katrine's smile, another hammer blow to his heart.

"I would very much like to be, because, you know what? I loved you, even before I met you."

"I will get all my things. I cannot wait to see _Maman_ and Lamine!"

He waited until Célestine was escorted out of the house to return to the barracks. He closed the door slowly. Then he turned to the two people who had sat quietly during his conversation with Célestine.

"Okay, Daisy Ginsberg. I was correct, wasn't I? The child Zannah Ginsberg is really Célestine du Pléssis."

"Yes. I heard her mother call her by that name the day she and her father were taken."

He was glad that Daisy confirmed Célestine's status. He pinned her with his gaze. She looked a little distraught. Then he asked the next question, something that had been on his mind since he regained consciousness in the infirmary.

"Who is the child buried with Joseph Blumenthal?"

Daisy felt Helmut's arm around her as her eyes filled with tears.

"It is my daughter, the real Zannah Ginsberg. You - You say she is buried? In a grave?"

"Yes, in the Paris cemetery. Explain to me briefly how such a switch could have been made," he ordered, feeling bad that Daisy had to recall a traumatic memory.

"The truck stopped in a big forest clearing. We could see the waiting train through the trees. We were all ordered to get out of the truck. When we couldn't move fast enough, they pulled us out. Célestine's father was sick and disoriented as he fell to the ground. I held the hands of the two children. When - when Joseph screamed for Célestine, the soldiers pulled Zannah to him. Célestine's father couldn't move well because he had already been badly beaten by them. My little Zannah was sick as well. She wore the same colour patterned dress as Célestine and was carrying Célestine's teddy bear. Then they shot Joseph and my Zannah."

Daisy's eyes were closed as she recalled the day, engraved forever in her memory. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks while Helmut held her close to him. Helmut looked distraught at what the Germans had done, his eyes expressing all the guilt on their behalf. He looked ashamed.

"What happened after that?" Miller asked.

"I told Célestine to pretend to be my little girl Zannah, then I could protect her, tell her to do whatever it took to stay alive in the camp."

Charles nodded in understanding. A child without parents arriving at the camp was an easy target. Then he looked at Helmut, who frowned at the hard expression in Miller's eyes.

"Did you touch the child?"

When Helmut didn't answer quickly enough, Miller yanked him to his feet and threatened to head butt him.

"Did you?"

"No. I have never touched any child in the camp. Never. I -"

"Please, Colonel, he speaks the truth."

Charles let him go suddenly. Then he barked an order. "Be in the administration building at 6pm. Not a minute later, is that clear? Both of you."

He couldn't kill von Wangenheim, although he felt damned near to breaking the German's neck.

He listened. From time to time he asked a question. He sat behind the desk, Daisy and Helmut von Wangenheim facing him. At another desk sat a young women's auxiliary, a stenographer who travelled everywhere with General Erikson.

She filled page after page of shorthand. Sometimes when he glanced at her, he'd see her wipe a tear from her eye.

Once Daisy Ginsberg started, it seemed she couldn't stop, the words tumbling from her mouth in heated catharsis. Her trials, her witnessing of what happened to her and Célestine, her longing for freedom, the things Götze and his cohorts had done to her. She spoke of the traumas she and Célestine experienced, of watching inmates shot dead in their presence, of having to feign indifference at a woman who lay dead right next to them. She spoke of the hanging tree where they'd sometimes see an inmate whose body swayed in the wind on cold days.

From the beginning, from the moment she and Célestine were brought into the camp, she told her story in meticulous detail. She had saved Célestine's life by sacrificing her own, by allowing herself to be a victim of the debauchery of the German soldiers and officers.

Daisy spoke of the day Günther Götze had made his lust clear when he said he wanted Célestine as his sex toy. How von Wangenheim stepped in and ordered her to bring the child to his quarters, in his own effort to save the child. She spoke of her fear for Célestine, of telling her to be strong. Daisy had no more tears, but Charles could see how she bled inside, how Günther Götze had eroded her self-worth so that she began to think she was no good anymore, a whore who liked the treatment they meted out to her. She spoke of the two Daisys, one bleeding inside, crying for strength and praying to God for deliverance, the other playing along with the filth of her captors, even showing her enjoyment.

She spoke of how she wept when Célestine told her that Herr von Wangenheim never touched her that first night, how he let her scratch her own legs and inner thighs so that it looked as if he had violated her. Just so men like Götze and the others could see that he too, played a major role in the rapes, the tortures, the prostitution that went out of control in the camp. She spoke of how she would protect Zannah by offering her own body, suffering in the name of a child who really was not hers.

Daisy spoke of how she knew that if she did not take Célestine to be her own Zannah, that Célestine would have been dead within a week in the camp, for then she would have been nobody's child, only good enough to be anyone's toy.

While Daisy spoke, he watched von Wangenheim's expression.

Many times the German officer nodded his head in assent. Sometimes he spoke, yet he never, during the hours they spent in the office, defended himself. He asserted from the outset that he was ready to accept the consequences.

Von Wangenheim spoke of his innate revulsion for the things his colleagues indulged in. As Hitler Jugend, the drilling and brainwashing had little effect on him, because he had grown up with values instilled by his own father. Even in the Jugend, he had been appalled that boys as young as fifteen and sixteen were already speaking about how they would enjoy killing the enemy. He spoke of his sadness of losing Jewish school friends who were removed from his school and taken to holding camps.

He had flinched whenever Götze and his gang shot dead an inmate without any compunction, with impunity, how they would laugh. He hated the idea of killing any person, had never killed and was not planning to kill. Von Wangenheim spoke about how he had been transferred from Berlin Headquarters to Buchenwald because they thought he was too soft and needed to become hardened by using women and young girls like his colleagues had. In Buchenwald they hoped that he would lose all inhibition, all sense of decorum and decency and violate as many women as the whim took him.

He spoke of his discovery that Célestine was a musical prodigy when he took her in his house that first night he'd called her. How she had looked at the violin as if it drew her inexorably to it. He let her play while he accompanied her on the piano. That night he had decided to lighten her burden by letting her practice with him twice a week. He spoke about how he had begun to sense that Götze wanted the child as his sex toy. When Célestine fell ill, he was instructed by Herr Doktor Schiller to keep her permanently in his house, that Daisy remain there to care of her.

He spoke of the day Götze killed Maestro Dobrinski who was Célestine's tutor, how Götze had taken the child to his own house. He spoke of how he found Götze attempting to rape Célestine, how he beat his superior nearly to death, so angry had he been that day. He had spent three months in the camp prison for knocking his superior's teeth from his mouth.

Three hours later, Charles called it a day. He rose and thanked Daisy and von Wangenheim for their input and told them it would go a long way in his defence should von Wangenheim be brought to trial. Von Wangenheim seemed proud and fearless, assuring him that he was prepared to go to jail.

"Please, see that Célestine is brought to me by 12pm," Miller said, looking at Daisy. "Pack her belongings, however little they are. The violin must be brought too. Célestine must be reunited with her mother as soon as possible."

When they remained, hovering near the door, he saw admiration in Daisy's eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I love Célestine, Colonel. I will miss her. But she has two parents now. I am glad."

"Thank you."

Miller smiled for the first time in hours. When they left, he sank back in the chair, looking at the stenographer.

"Write up the report, will you? I want it by tomorrow morning, in triplicate."

"Yes, sir. Sir, if I may..."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Is Célestine your daughter?"

"I married her mother. Yes, that makes her my daughter."

Half an hour later, after he'd dismissed the stenographer, Charles picked up the phone. He needed to speak with Katrine. She needed to know that her little Célestine was still alive, surviving against all the odds in a concentration camp.

The whole afternoon after Célestine had been taken to the barracks by Private Delaney, he had been in a quandary, wondering as to how to inform Katrine of the miraculous news.

Katrine believed implicitly that her daughter had died. There was no reason for her to believe otherwise, since she'd received an official communiqué from the Germans that her husband and child had died. Also, when she and Lamine had gone to investigate the Germans' so-called turn of heart that they knew where the bodies were, they'd found only two - that of Joseph and Célestine. Their bodies had decomposed beyond recognition given the fact that they had lain in a field with tall grass for months, that winter had hastened the rate of decay.

To inform his wife over the phone would shock her terribly. He didn't want her to suffer what he had earlier in the day when he saw Célestine play the violin. The only way he could prepare her was to expand the idea that they wanted to adopt one of the children.

"If you connect to a child, especially a girl," she'd said one night in Paris, "and if she has no parents or family at all, we can give her a home."

He remembered staring at her with open-mouthed wonder.

"You really want that, my love?"

"To give her a home, to give her love and caring, yes."

"Then so be it, Katrine." And his love for her burned fiercely because she wanted little Evan to be hers too.

His heart was racing as he dialled the switchboard with trembling fingers and gave his name and Katrine's number. He was told to hold the line, hearing as the number was being dialled. Then he waited.

When at last he heard her voice, he felt faint, another sensation of dizziness overcoming him.

" _Charles_...?"

"Katrine!"

"You are _Colonel_ Miller! W-Where are you calling from?"

"I am at the Buchenwald concentration camp, Katrine."

A dead silence ensued. For a moment he thought Katrine might have put the phone down. "Katrine?"

"Yes. W-Why are you calling?"

"Katrine, do you remember how we spoke about - about children orphaned at the camps?"

"I asked you to find a child with whom you felt a connection, so that we could give her a home…"

Katrine's voice trembled; it sounded tearful. He knew she was thinking about Célestine. He felt such a heel for having to deceive her. He genuinely felt that surprising her on the phone might be too great a shock. If she could be mentally prepared a child was coming, the shock would be diminished somewhat.

"Well, I have found such a child, my love. Her name is Zannah Ginsberg and she is almost ten years old, and quite tiny for her age. I love her already and I am dead certain you will love her too. She needs an abundance of love. She has been through a great deal of suffering in the camp."

Katrine burst into tears but continued to speak through her sobbing.

" _Ne t'inquiète pas, mon amour_. We will shower her with our devotion. You are sure she will like us?"

"Oh, yes. I think she loves us already. I told her how we would love to give her a home and to make her our daughter. She likes me!"

"When will you bring Zannah? You say she is almost ten years? Does she have any clothing? I want to go out and buy her some tomorrow. Oh!"

Charles laughed at the excitement mingled with tears of his wife who sounded so obviously overjoyed. He wasn't going to tell her about "Zannah's" musical ability.

"What?"

"It is Sunday tomorrow! Oh, I wish it were Monday already!"

""Zannah" has an extra dress - "

"When can she come? Tonight? Oh, _Charles,_ I was so sick today! I had an attack this morning. I woke up in hospital. It has never happened to me! The doctor said I suffered palpitations - "

"Katrine! What time did that happen?"

"At around 11 o'clock."

Charles gasped, then went quiet. The same time he had his attack and landed in the infirmary. He was quiet a long time.

" _Charles_?"

"No - no, it's nothing. Are you okay now?"

"Yes, but I was restless all day after that. When are you bringing "Zannah"?

"Tomorrow. Or will Monday - "

"No! Tomorrow!"

"Good. Expect us around 5pm."

"Oh, _Charles!_ I am so happy! I'll cook the best meal!"

"I am sure "Zannah" and I shall enjoy it. I have to go now. A lot of things to do before we leave here."

"Come home soon..."

 **Paris - April 1945**

Katrine couldn't sleep after Charles phoned her. She knew that Buchenwald had been liberated by American troops.

Now, she was filled with unbearable excitement and thought that Sunday couldn't come soon enough. On an impulse she walked to the lounge and cranked up the phonograph, playing one of the Mozart violin concertos that Célestine had loved so much. She sat back on the couch and closed her eyes. She tried playing her conversation with Charles over and over in her mind.

They were to have a daughter! They would raise her with all the love they had. Charles said "Zannah" had suffered a lot. She was prepared to guide their new daughter through her traumas, be there during the nights should she be terrified by nightmares.

The music was beautiful, Célestine's favourite piece. The soft beauty of it filled her heart. Katrine lay still a long time, running the telephone conversation once more in her mind.

She was a resistance fighter who dealt with all sorts of coded messages, had learnt to read between the lines any hidden messages during the Resistance's heyday.

What was Charles not telling her? What lay hidden behind his words and the words he didn't say? There were times he'd hesitated when he spoke, the sudden silence heavy with a strange import. Now suddenly she wondered what "Zannah" looked like. Although their conversation was not long by any standard, Charles would surely have mentioned some of the little girl's likes and dislikes, whether she loved to read or whether she liked music, what she looked like, the colour of her hair, her eyes.

Another thought struck her. It was already after ten. Even if they travelled in the jeep in the early morning, it would still take them two days to get to Paris. Surely they'd have to rest overnight somewhere? Something was a bit strange, she thought. There were not many civil aviation airports around Buchenwald. They could not go to Berlin; that city was not yet occupied for Allied Forces had not yet reached it. The war was not over. How else would they travel if not by train - also two days - and military air transport? Danger still lurked in some areas of Germany.

Then another thought occurred, which added to her concern. While her husband could bring their new daughter home, he'd have to leave for the front almost immediately. She would be without him again, perhaps for more than a month. Charles had left out a lot of things that he could have said. But then, his most important information was to tell her about "Zannah".

Katrine wondered if "Zannah" liked music.

Then, on an impulse, Katrine got up and entered Célestine's room. She opened her daughter's drawers, looked at Célestine's undergarments. Holding up one of them, she thought "Zannah" might be small enough to put them on, only until she could get to the boutiques on Monday. In Célestine's wardrobe were all the dresses for summer and winter, all the coats she had never had the heart to get rid of, still hanging. Taking one of the garments in her hands, she thought how she had bought some of Célestine's dresses a size too large. They could fit a child whom Charles said was quite tiny for her age.

Then Katrine buried her face in the soft fabric of the dress, giving a few heartrending sobs.

"Célestine, my beloved child, please be happy for us...please..."

END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


	20. Chapter 20

A/N - I seem to lose section break formatting when uploading from my PC to . So instead of a normal section break, I've put little headers in its place. Hope that clears the confusion when there's a scene change. Thanks to "guest" for pointing this out.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 **Buchenwald - April 1945**

 _"We owe our children – the most vulnerable citizens in any society – a life free from violence and fear."_

 _-_ _ **Nelson Mandela**_

Célestine could not stand still. She hopped about on one leg, then the other, then tugged at her hair, bent down to check if her shoes were still clean. She smoothed down the grey camp dress that was a little too big for her. She placed her hand over her heart to feel it thumping like an orchestra's tympani. When she touched her cheeks, they felt warm.

Daisy let her look in a tiny mirror one of the women passed around when anyone wanted to look at themselves. Her cheeks were red and her eyes looked watery. But she was not sick. Except for her heart that was beating so fast.

"How long have I been here, Maman Daisy?" she had asked early this morning when she woke up on a clean bunk with clean blankets.

"Two years, eight months and twenty two days," Daisy responded without blinking.

Célestine gasped. "How did you know?"

"We worked it out, little one. Every woman who arrived here recorded the date they arrived. Besides, Herr von Wangenheim has a calendar in his house - "

"The one the Colonel - my new Papa - lives in?"

"Yes, my dear. Now, do you have your things?"

Célestine climbed on her bunk and took a small parcel. It contained the teddy bear that had once belonged to Zannah Ginsberg, Daisy's own little girl. When she stood ready in front of Daisy, she spoke very softly as she held out the teddy bear to the older woman.

"I am sorry that Zannah died that day." Her eyes filled with the tears of remembering the traumatic event in which her father and another little girl were shot dead before their eyes.

Daisy took the little bear from her and held it to her bosom. Célestine was suddenly sad when she saw how Daisy's eyes closed. When she spoke, her eyes were soft as she looked at Célestine.

"Do not be, Zannah. I have made my peace. She is buried in the same grave where your own papa lies in the Paris cemetery."

Daisy held the violin case under her arm. "Come, we must go now. Colonel Miller said we must be there at 12pm."

"Can I not go and say goodbye to Herr von Wangenheim? Please? Please?"

Célestine looked at her with such pleading yes that her own resolve crumbled. She gave a little nod and indicated that Célestine should follow her to the prison bunkers. When they arrived, a very tall soldier stood in front of the gates to the building.

"We would like permission to see Herr von Wangenheim. This little - "

Rheddam Compton, standing more than six feet tall in his socks had to bend down to face Célestine.

"Hey, are you not the kid wonder who played the violin like a pro?"

"What is a pro?" Célestine asked shyly.

"A professional. Someone who is very good at something, like playing the violin. Say, I'm Rheddam Compton, at your service. I'm a pro too. I can shoot a coyote dead at one thousand paces. Say, you look like someone I met in St. Clair, France."

"My name is Célestine du Pléssis."

"Holy mackerel!" exclaimed Beanpole Compton. "That lady fighter in St. Clair, her name is Katrine du Pléssis. Are you her long lost little girl?"

For the first time, Célestine smiled and nodded, her eyes shining.

"Colonel Miller wears a wedding band, right? He married the lady fighter Katrine. That makes him your papa, right?"

Célestine nodded, happy to speak to a soldier who was friendly.

"Please, Colonel Miller is waiting for us. If we could just see Herr von Wangenheim."

"Hey, I'm just happy, okay? The Colonel loves your mama very much. Right, follow me. Wait." Compton called another soldier. "Hey, Dillinger! Cover for me here, will ya?"

Compton led them to a section of the jail where they held the officers. In the second cell they found Helmut von Wangenheim. They had to pass Günther Götze. Daisy just glanced at him then looked away quickly. For a moment she felt like sticking out her tongue at him, but she remembered why they were there in the first place. She hoped Günther would rot in hell.

He indicated to the soldier who guarded the corridor to unlock the door of von Wangenheim's cell. The moment the door opened, Célestine rushed inside and threw herself against Helmut.

"Herr von Wangenheim! I could not go before saying goodbye to you. I shall miss you!" she murmured against him.

He simply stood holding Célestine against him, but looking at Daisy, his eyes full of longing and sadness.

"My child, I wished I could do more. I shall miss you too."

Célestine released the distraught man and handed him a piece of paper.

"So you can know where I am, Herr von Wangenheim. Remember me!"

"I shall never forget you, Célestine. God be with you." Helmut then looked at Daisy. "She has parents now. I am happy for her."

Then he pulled Daisy gently against him, holding her for a few moments, burying his face in her hair. When he held her away from him, he smiled at last. "We will be together some day."

Daisy noticed how he said it as a fact, his words filled with absolute certainty. Slowly she backed away, taking Célestine's hand. When they walked down the corridor, both Daisy and Célestine cried. The moment they stepped outside, she thanked Corporal Compton who had been kind enough to let them see one of the prisoners.

They made their way to Colonel Miller's quarters, walking at a leisurely pace because it was still half an hour before they had to report to him.

"Now we can go to my new Papa..."

"Yes, little one."

 **In General Erikson's office**

"It should shed light on what has happened in the camp, General. I have no reason not to believe what von Wangenheim and Daisy Ginsberg have testified. I'd like to keep two copies, one to give Célestine's mother. Katrine - "

"The woman to whom you are married?"

"Yes, my wife. I'd like her to read the testimony, especially of Daisy Ginsberg, so she can have a good idea just how this adorable child survived in this hell hole."

"I must thank you for this work, Colonel. There is much to do still, and that includes transferring our prisoners of war to Dachau. Our men are on the brink of liberating that camp too. Our prisoners will be tried there. We would like Madame Ginsberg to remain to testify. I understand she is leaving us shortly, but if I can prevail on her to stay for a short period."

"Then I suggest you allow her and another former inmate to stay in my quarters. I think she deserves it. I don't think she has remaining family. She might find her home in France occupied by strangers now."

Erikson nodded severely, then glanced at Charles again.

"I know you are in a hurry to depart today. Weimar has a military airfield. We have a garrison stationed there. There are two flights daily taking cargo as well as personnel to Paris. First one left at 0800. The second flight is at 15h00. You should have ample time to make it to Paris and reintegrate your daughter into her family."

Charles smiled, grateful that they were making concessions for him. He didn't want Célestine to remain another day in the camp. She was his daughter now. He felt an overwhelming urge to protect her like he wanted to protect her mother. They were part of his life now.

"Thank you, General."

"You're certain you don't want a driver to the airfield?"

He had thought about it. Johannes Elsevier was his regular driver. He could use a driver.

"My driver, Sgt Elsevier."

"Good. You both have a week."

Charles nodded, saluted and left General Erikson's office, feeling a whole lot better for having dropped off the report the young stenographer had typed in triplicate. He walked into his own office where he sent the guard on duty to hail Sergeant Elsevier. When Elsevier eventually arrived, out of breath and smelling of smoke, Charles wanted to laugh. They were definitely in a lull at the camp and a number of the troops were simply hanging about.

"Clean up, Elsevier. Report at my quarters at 12pm sharp."

"In the jeep, Colonel?"

"Do you expect me to walk to Paris?"

"We're going to Paris? Colonel, it's over five hundred miles south!"

"No need to shout. We're driving to Weimar, board a Douglas C-54, load the jeep on the plane and fly south."

"But - but then you could go without - "

"You want to go or not?"

"Hell, yeah! Gee, thanks, Colonel! I know Paris like the back of my hand, you know?"

"I know. Now scat and be at my quarters."

Elsevier clicked his heels so hard and saluted so lopsidedly that Charles had to smile. "And don't forget to brush your teeth. We have a child traveling with us."

"Yes, sir! Colonel, sir!"

 **At his quarters**

He hurried in long strides to his quarters to await the arrival of Daisy and Célestine.

Célestine.

He loved her already. She had the same feisty regard in her eyes as her mother, was probably also as stubborn as Katrine. He had to find that out, and he was sure that day was just around the corner. He kept thinking of her tenacity to survive against all the odds. Over the years thousands of inmates died, and yet some children survived. To his mind they survived because of women like Daisy Ginsberg and officers like Helmut von Wangenheim.

He dressed in his military uniform this time, the olive bomber jacket with cargo pants, his garrison cap sporting his new insignia with a little red diamond on the left side.

Once he'd stepped into his quarters, he'd breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't been here long, but he had been comfortable sleeping once again on a bed after months bivouacking in open fields, snowy ditches and tents. He thought ruefully that he should have let Célestine sleep in his bed last night while he could have bunked down on the couch, even slept on the floor. He'd been so focused on administration he hadn't given it a thought. Then again, it was good that she spent her last night in the camp with the woman who mothered her. That thought gave him some expiation from the flash of guilt he experienced, a belated comfort.

Against the wall above the piano was a painting. How good that Katrine had introduced him to this art form. A very good representation of a chateau or schloss in a forest, since the painting obviously belonged to von Wangenheim. He wondered a moment who painted it. A lovely stately home of their family. The piano belonged there, was his thought.

His duffel was packed. He was certain Katrine would want to see him in his officer's dress uniform showing off his new badges and ribbons, so that was packed as well. He smiled to himself. It was a rare honour to be awarded America's highest award for bravery on the field of battle. He would most likely be lining up with other recipients from the air force, the marines, other divisions of the armed forces.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Come inside," he called. When the door opened, Daisy and Célestine stood like two silhouettes against the light that streamed through the door. He noticed the drab dress Célestine was wearing, something in him breaking at the sight of Katrine's child. He rallied quickly and waved with his hand that they enter, as they stood there in the open door waiting for an invitation.

"Célestine, I see you are ready."

She smiled. He bent down and hugged her, her frail arms hardly able to reach round his chest. She felt so small, so fragile. For a moment he felt his eyes prick. He released her gently, held her face in his big hands and kissed her forehead.

"Sit down, will you? I need to speak with Daisy."

Daisy had meanwhile put down Célestine's small bag as well as the Tononi next to her.

"Daisy, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for our daughter. Yours was a very, very difficult road to walk here in Buchenwald. You have given her a family, you gave her your name, your very body in order to protect a child not your own. That, I think, is miraculous. I am giving a copy of your testimony to her mother Katrine, to read and experience how the most courageous woman of Buchenwald saved Célestine's life. Do not think I don't know what names you have been called. But my dear, you are an amazing woman, and I think the world needs to know of your bravery."

Daisy's mouth curved in a soft smile. "Thank you, Colonel Miller."

"You do understand that you have to stay for a short while to give testimony."

"Yes. I am pleased to be staying here in this house until the trials. I have been informed by General Erikson."

"Your testimony and that of other men and women will be crucial in the fate of the German soldiers and officers."

"Herr von Wangenheim is fully aware of the consequences, Colonel. I - I shall wait for him."

"After the trials, where will you go?"

Daisy looked uncertain for the first time. It struck Charles she might not have a place to stay.

"I have friends in Paris. I will try to find a teaching position again. Yes, do not worry about me, Colonel."

Charles took a piece of paper and a pen, wrote Katrine's address and telephone number on it and handed it to Daisy.

"Anytime you need assistance, just call, will you?"

It gratified him to see Daisy's face light up.

"My husband died in the labour camps. I am without family now, but Colonel, I have survived almost three years - "

"Two years, eight months and twenty two days!" Célestine piped up.

"In the camp, yes, and I will survive outside it."

Charles stared at the painting on the wall. "Tell me about this painting."

"It is the chateau of Baron Freiherr von Wangenheim."

"He is a landowner."

"He inherited the title only recently, after his elder brother died - "

"The Olympic rider?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you once again, Daisy." Charles turned to Célestine. "You can say goodbye to your other mommy."

Charles waited outside for the two to part. He saw Daisy sitting down next to Célestine, hugging her for what seemed like forever. Both were in tears, but Célestine, he knew, was in a hurry to leave."Goodbye, Maman Daisy. Goodbye..."

Daisy kissed her cheeks, the top of her head, held her close again for several heady seconds before she stepped away.

"Goodbye, Célestine. I love you. I will always love you, for you were my little Zannah whom I lost. Goodbye..."

Then Daisy turned and hurried down the steps.

 **Arrival at the Weimar Airfield**

Charles sat next to Célestine in the back of the jeep, with their luggage tucked safely behind the seats. Johannes Elsevier smiled broadly all the way to the airfield just outside Weimar. He had been over the moon to drive his Colonel around again.

Charles glanced at Célestine, who sensed he was looking at her. She smiled before putting her tiny hand in his, a gesture of such confidence, such trust that he had trouble breathing again. She'd called him "Papa" just after Daisy left the house. He gently reminded her that she didn't have to call him anything but Charles. To which she responded with such assertiveness that since he had married her mother and since she could see that he wasn't ever going to hurt her and that he loved her already, she preferred to call him "Papa".

"It is not necessary," he replied in French. Once again she responded with "I can speak English."

He'd felt the old drum beating against his chest at her unblemished trust in him. She sounded uncommonly like Katrine, even adopting her familiar posture of standing with her hands at her sides, as if she was saying, " _Papa_ it is and don't you dare say otherwise."

He'd smiled broadly before he pulled her into his embrace and kissed the top of her head. He'd thought that he would never ever have the opportunity to see Katrine's child, had believed, like her, that Célestine had died. Now, all those nights he had comforted Katrine when she missed her little girl too much, he'd wished so very badly that Célestine was alive so that Katrine could be happy again.

To see Célestine looking so happy to be going home warmed his heart. But he knew She had suffered major traumas during her stay in the camp. She had yet to speak about them, if she ever would. It would probably be a good idea to have her receive counselling. Like most former inhabitants of the concentration camps, her experiences would haunt her for the rest of her life. Charles vowed silently that he would be by her side forever, just like he'd promised her mother.

When they reached the airfield, there was a general hubbub as vehicles drove around; other cargo planes and bombers were readying for take-off. They were half an hour early. First Elsevier stopped the jeep in front of the US administration offices. Here and there Charles could see German panzer vehicles, all out of action.

"Wait here," he said as he got out and entered the office where he spoke to the air traffic controller.

"Your Douglas C-54 is about ready for take off," he was told. "You are three passengers and one jeep. My men will load the jeep on the plane."

Charles nodded, then took the boarding passes from the controller. He was on army business, reuniting a child with her mother. The blessed new perks of senior military officials like colonels and generals. He didn't have to use his own funds.

"The jeep will be loaded on the plane," he told Elsevier. Just then a sergeant arrived to take the jeep. Elsevier looked aggrieved.

"Don't hurt my jeep, will ya?"

"Don't worry, we do this every day!" the sergeant said good-naturedly as he drove the jeep to the rear of the Douglas.

"Well, sir," Elsevier said as he turned to Miller, "I'm looking forward to seeing some pals from my home town. They're stationed in Paris."

"Good. Now, what do you say, Célestine, shall we go and board the plane?"

Célestine nodded vigorously, then exclaimed, "I have never been on a plane, Papa!"

"Enjoy the ride, my goldenbird. You can hold on to me if you feel too scared when the plane takes off, okay?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Célestine...I told you - "

She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes changing colour from blue-grey to dark grey. She was distressed, but refused to weep.

"Did you marry my _Maman_?"

"Yes."

"And you love her?"

"I love her with all my heart."

"And did you promise to protect her and be by her side forever?"

"Yes."

"Then can I not call you 'Papa'?"

"Célestine , you just met me - "

"Is that not enough? Don't you _want_ to be my papa?"

It was hard to avoid a pair of blue-grey eyes that glared at him. He couldn't not accept such a gracious order.

"Okay. Actually, I don't mind. Thank you, Célestine."

They boarded the plane, Célestine occupying a window seat, clamping Charles's hand very tightly when it took off. Charles smiled. There was so much that Célestine had to learn and relearn. She'd missed almost three years of her life and there was a lot of catching up to do.

"Open your eyes, sweetie. Look!"

Célestine opened her eyes slowly and looked out the window. Then she pointed to a building compound.

"What are those buildings, Papa?"

"Why, that's Buchenwald, honey."

Célestine gazed at the buildings as they became smaller and murmured in a sad tone, "I never want to see it again..."

Half an hour into their two hour flight, she began to nod off. Charles gestured to one of the flight attendants and asked for a blanket. Soon he covered her with the blanket and pulled her gently towards him so that her head rested against his shoulder. She was overtired and he guessed that she had slept littlefor all the excitement. Pretty much the same as when he had prepared for an important championship race and he couldn't sleep. Smiling tenderly he gave her a gentle squeeze. She was so tiny, like her mother. He felt an overwhelming affection for her. How, he thought, was it possible that he could love a child he had only just met? When she'd looked and smiled at him yesterday she'd captured his heart. Was it only yesterday that he felt his life was going to change forever? That Katrine's life would change forever? Sighing, he caressed Célestine's hair, smoothing it away from her face. She really looked like she could do with a nap. Then he too relaxed and closed his eyes.

 **Paris - April 16 1945**

"Oh, there's the Arc de Triomphe," Célestine exclaimed excitedly as Johannes Elsevier drove them through the city.

Her excitement was infectious, causing both Charles and Elsevier to smile. Naturally it was as if she were seeing the landmarks for the first time. They both understood how she missed the things that had been familiar to her.

As they drove down the Champs Élysées, Célestine couldn't contain her joy, pointing out buildings she remembered, loving the drive down the famous avenue. Charles just kept smiling as he looked at Célestine's animated face, alive with delight. As she pointed to a particular building, her eyes caught the tattooed ID number on her arm. Her hand paused in mid-air, the smile leaving her face so quickly in sudden remembrance of an unpleasant memory of her life, that Charles thought she'd cry. But just as suddenly the smile appeared again. Gone was that moment of sadness. Charles thought how Katrine could also shut away a bad memory. They were very alike, mother and daughter.

"Are we there yet, Papa?" she asked a minute or so later.

"Almost. Sergeant Elsevier thought you might enjoy seeing the city on our way home."

"Thank you, Sergeant!"

"You are most welcome, little girl!"

His heart began to hammer painfully. For a moment Charles thought he might be suffering another bout of palpitations. Ever since he had seen Célestine playing the violin, he had been beset by doubts as to how he would inform Katrine her daughter was alive and well. He even thought of a plan to introduce Katrine to her lost child. But he knew whatever way he chose, it would still come as a shock to Katrine.

Just before they'd left Buchenwald, he'd given her a call to apprise her of their estimated time of arrival. It was now almost 5 o'clock. They really had made good time. Elsevier would drop them, return to the barracks at the US base outside the city and remain there until Charles called for him again. He didn't want to think about returning yet, wanting to enjoy precious R & R time with his family.

Soon they entered the _Rue Lion_ from the opposite end of the road than the day he'd arrived in the jeep at Katrine's home. They would park the vehicle on the same side of the road as the house, just about fifteen yards away. He'd told Célestine that they would do it that way so that he could first call Katrine and not have her faint when she saw Célestine suddenly in her open doorway.

"We are here," said Célestine in a breathless whisper, her words caught on a sob. She was home and within minutes she'd see her mother.

Elsevier stopped the vehicle. Charles got out, then held his hand to Célestine to help her off the jeep.

"Wait here, sweetheart."

So Célestine stood on the sidewalk and waited like Charles asked her. Sergeant Elsevier stood just behind Célestine and watched Colonel Miller walk to the front door of his home. He knew he was going to witness a miracle, something he could write about in his journal to capture for all time the reunion between a mother and her daughter whom she thought had died years ago. A man of faith, he always considered what he witnessed to be one of God's divine wonders in the lives of ordinary people. Ordinary people? Colonel Charles Anson Miller was no ordinary man and his wife Katrine Miller was no ordinary woman, a real fighter according to Francis and Beanpole.

He watched as Miller approached the door, seeing how the colonel never knocked because the door was already opened by his wife.

This is it, Elsevier thought. The beginning of the miracle.

Charles walked the short distance to the door. When he reached it, it opened and a breathless Katrine, beautiful as ever with her face animated with joy, stood there. She threw herself against him in a long hug. When she stood away from him, there was only one question she asked.

"Where is she, _Charles_? Where is our daughter?"

Then Charles took her hand and led her outside. He pointed to the jeep and the child standing on the sidewalk next to the vehicle. Katrine's eyes widened as she looked at Célestine.

"Be strong, Katrine," Charles whispered next to her. "Be strong..."

 **At Katrine's home**

The whole day Katrine had been on tenterhooks. Charles had called earlier in the day to tell her what time they'd be arriving. She'd cleaned the whole house, then remained in Célestine's room, pondering on whether she'd discard some of Célestine's old clothes, her toys, and pictures, so that "Zannah" could feel she wasn't a replacement daughter for her and Charles. Célestine's violin had been placed in its case and put away in their storage cupboard. She didn't know if their new daughter had any musical ability like Célestine. There were so many things they had to think about. She'd promised herself to take "Zannah" shopping on Monday to buy her new soft toys, dresses, undergarments.

On impulse, she'd taken out the little teddy bear Célestine had carried when they'd been taken away from her that fateful day. It had been cleaned. In fact, Lamine had spent some time in making the worn toy look a lot more presentable. She'd put it on Célestine's bed along with the other toys. She would explain to "Zannah" that it belonged to her daughter who had died. If she wanted to keep it, that was fine. If she didn't, it was also fine.

She prayed "Zannah" would call her " _Maman_ " soon, and call Charles "Papa". Charles had not said anything about whether their new daughter was French or Polish or a German Jew. She would have to learn French and English then.

She'd prepared a light meal for them, thinking that a child who'd lived a long time in a concentration camp would not be used to more balanced meals. "Zannah" would have to get used to so many things - food, school, new friends, new parents!

Katrine had taken out one of the dresses that Célestine had never worn, thinking that she'd let "Zannah" wear it when they sat down to dinner. She was probably still wearing camp clothes and a new dress would would help her to adapt and put the horrors of Buchenwald behind her.

Yes, that was what she'd do when Charles came home. She had been restless all day. Tomorrow she'd have to inform her faculty dean about some leave. Her students were always willing to work extra hours; they could make up for lost time after Charles left again. If she knew her husband, he would stand in the lounge at attention and tell her he'd have to leave again. Her Charles...not one for goodbyes.

It was nearly time. Charles had said 5pm. She stood in the lounge, surveying the room to check one last time if everything was in order. Then her ears pricked. She heard the familiar sound of a jeep. She looked through the window, not seeing anything until Charles approached the front door.

Her heart raced as she rushed to open the door, throwing herself in his arms for several heady seconds. Then she pulled back and asked, "Where is she, _Charles_? Where is our daughter?"

Without speaking, Charles turned her to face the jeep standing not far from them.

Katrine saw a child standing on the sidewalk in a formless shift that did little to conceal the extreme gauntness of her frame. This was no stranger. This was not someone else's orphan child who looked at her with the same blue-grey eyes, the same hair, the same mouth as her own. Katrine's eyes grew wide, soft, instantly swimming with tears. She felt faint, light-headed, her body threatening to lift off the earth and float away. But she was still standing, barely able to hold on to a fragile anchor, the ground beneath her feet. A voice broke through the unbearable lightness of her senses - _Charles_? - calling to her. A hand on her shoulder offered comfort, reassurance, a touch that told her she should not be afraid.

"Be strong, Katrine. Be strong..."

How could she be strong when every nerve in her body, every sinew and every drop of blood, every tear she had ever shed, turned her into a quivering mass that looked upon the apparition, threatening to undo her? Through a shimmering of rain which she realised were her tears, she saw Célestine hovering like a mirage in the distance. Was it real? Could she reach out her hand and touch the phantom? An uncontrollable shudder took hold of her.

It was a trick. Charles was playing a despicable trick on her. This could not be real. Her Célestine had died. How could she be standing there, not far away from her with a face full of uncertainty, a little smile so like her own hovering on those red lips?

From a great distance Katrine heard the voice of another, a contemptible man who destroyed her life.

" _They are Jews!_ _They are Jews!_ "

Then the letter that she received.

" _Two of the bodies are of your husband Joseph Eleazar Blumenthal and the other your daughter Célestine Héloise Blumenthal. They have died before they could be taken to work camps in Germany."_

She remembered the letter, every word of it, for did those damning words not stab her insides so deeply that she could not sleep properly for weeks?

 _Célestine is dead. Celestine is dead._

She had been inconsolable in the weeks that followed that news.

How could this be? Was it a figment of her imagination? An unholy reality come to haunt her anew? Did she wish so hard for her daughter to be alive that Célestine manifested herself in her dreams as a physical reality? In her waking moments, she saw her daughter in every child in St. Clair, in Paris.

How could it be? Her daughter had died. Died! The Germans told her that. She had found her remains in a forest clearing.

" _C-Charles_?"

His name tore from her very soul as the child began to move towards her.

" _Maman_! _Maman_!" Célestine's voice rang out in the clear late afternoon air. Katrine stood rooted to the spot, unable to move for the sheer impossibility of the figment grown into real flesh and blood, unbelievable, until Célestine cried out " _Maman_..."

Her knees buckled unceremoniously and she would have gone down were it not that Charles held on to her.

"Célestine...?"

" _Maman_!" Célestine cried again as she reached her mother and lunged against Katrine. This time Katrine did go down on her knees as she held the trembling child against her. It was her! the thought raced through her shattered defences. It _was_ Célestine. It could not be anyone else, she was real as the child's delicate frame trembled against her.

Then she began touching her daughter. Trembling fingers traversed the planes of Célestine's face, fingers that would not believe but through touch sought confirmation of life. At first, Célestine's hair, then her eyes, her forehead, the smooth skin of her cheeks, her mouth, her lips that always, when Célestine's was excited, were red as rubies. Then she repeated the journey of Célestine's face while the child reached for her mother's face in a wordless testimony of touch and smell.

Katrine remembered Charles' words to her. _"One day, Katrine, you will get back those things you were searching for..."_

She felt a pair of hands lift them, ushering them indoors. Still Katrine would not let go of her daughter. In the lounge he made them sit down, and she kept hugging the child to her. Charles went outside again.

Célestine sat tightly cuddled against her mother. They did not speak, content just to gaze at one another, reaffirming familiar features through touch. Katrine kissed the top of Célestine's head. Her eyes filled with tears again as she held her daughter a little away, simply gazing at her. Her daughter had been alive all this time and she didn't know, a child of Buchenwald, an orphan child with no family, no connections. Célestine burst into tears again. Katrine pulled her close.

"They told me you had died, my beloved child," she whispered into Célestine's hair.

When the tears subsided, Célestine smiled. Katrine noticed for the first time how strong her face had become, strong and gentle with a world's wisdom in her eyes. Much of the little girl she had known was gone, replaced by a child who had seen the worst of the human condition. It was not fair, it was not right; it was an indictment against a regime that committed a thousand sins against humanity. They had given her daughter memories that would live side by side with all the new beautiful ones until the day she died. It was not right.

" _Maman_ ," Célestine spoke in whispered tones. "I stayed alive, _Maman_. I dreamed of you every night."

Charles and his driver had meanwhile brought in their luggage which Charles stored in Lamine's room. She did not notice that the driver - a sergeant - had left the house and only realised that he wasn't staying when she heard the jeep speed off.

Charles sat on a stool and faced the two women in his life. He saw a thousand questions in his wife's eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her gently. Célestine gasped.

"Now you are my papa..."

"Yes, goldenbird."

" _Charles_?" Katrine murmured his name.

"I'll just give you the short version of the mix-up. We can talk a little later, after we've had something to eat."

"A mix-up?"

"Yes, and the intervention of one of the finest women you'll ever know. That day the trucks stopped in the forest, a woman, Daisy Ginsberg, held the hands of her own daughter and this little squirt next to you. Joseph had already been badly beaten and was sick, so they hauled him from the truck. Everyone had to get out. When Joseph, dazed from the beatings called for his daughter - Célestine - he reached for Daisy's child, thinking it was Célestine. Because he was moving with difficulty, the soldiers grabbed the child."

"And she had my teddy bear, _Maman_."

Katrine's throat moved, unable to speak. She looked like she would burst into tears again.

"Daisy Ginsberg's daughter Zannah died that day, Katrine."

Célestine crawled into her mother's embrace, her voice soft when she spoke.

"Maman Daisy told me to say I'm her daughter, that we must try to stay alive..."

"That act," Charles told her, "saved Célestine 's life, for any child without parents or support was the first target of camp staff." Charles shuddered as he remembered reports he'd read about some of the doctors, although not Schiller, who had performed experiments on children.

They waited for unending minutes while Célestine cried forlornly. When she stopped, she looked at both of them with teary eyes, but smiling again.

"Can we eat now?"

 **That night**

Charles opened the door to Célestine's room and tiptoed inside. His heart burned fiercely at the sight that greeted him. Mother and daughter were lying spooned together, fast asleep and it was only just after ten. Katrine's arm was thrown around Célestine's waist clutching her comfortably to her bosom in a gesture so protective, even in her sleep.

A bedside lamp threw a dim light over the sleeping pair. They looked perfect together, his wife and daughter. All the strain of the past few hours was gone, their faces peaceful, their breathing unhurried. Their cheeks bore the signs of tears that had marked their reunion all evening, even throughout the light supper they'd had together. There was not much conversation, but the atmosphere was serene. Often he'd looked at Célestine who smiled gently whenever she caught his eyes on her.

She was not a voracious eater, even after such a long time eating meagre camp food. But he could see Katrine was happy she was eating at least, never pushing the child to stuff herself. Célestine had to adapt to freedom and family life at her pace. In that, Katrine mothered her child perfectly, infinitely patient when it came to bath time, to fitting on pyjamas that were too small for Célestine. Much to her delight Célestine had declared, "Tomorrow, Papa will take us to the boutiques in the city to buy me a new dress and new nightie."

Her demands were small. She'd lived through extreme privation where a pair of shoes was a luxury. Their daughter was achingly sensitive, never speaking about mounds of clothing and shoes and sheet music and toys like he'd expect of any child of nine. That would come with time. While they burned to spoil Célestine, to shower her with everything she didn't have because she was a prisoner, they held back.

While Célestine was in the bathroom, Katrine had found him in the lounge.

"Oh, _Charles_!"

He'd held her like a drowning man. He'd missed her desperately. They had been apart since September of the previous year.

"Katrine...Katrine...Katrine..." he murmured her name, burying his face in her hair, feeling like floating as he closed his eyes. He gave a sob, and for a few moments his body shook against her. The reaction of recognising Célestine playing the violin, of realising that it was Katrine's daughter and therefore also his, of all the hurried arrangements, interviews and reports that had to be completed before he could stand like he was standing with her in his arms, was finally setting in. Katrine, dear loving Katrine had just held him as on a night so many months ago when she had lain spooned to him. He had seen no censure in her eyes from springing such an earth-shattering surprise on her; she lauded his action.

"I would have been demented, being so far away, knowing my daughter was there, a prisoner, a freed inmate. I would never have rested. I was ready to see a child called Zannah..."

He kissed her deeply then, for she understood. He had agonised how he'd introduce Célestine to her. Now all seemed right.

"Célestine has been through so much. We must give her time. Meanwhile I have a report here I'd like you to read. It will explain a lot about how Célestine survived in the camp."

Katrine smiled her bright smile while her eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you, Charles, for bringing our daughter home."

She'd looked at him and he acknowledged the same need in her, that of having been separated for so long. Only when they heard Célestine's voice from the bathroom calling her, did they break apart and she hurried to the bathroom.

That had been earlier in the evening. Célestine was tired and Katrine was just as exhausted. Now as he looked at them, he thought he'd leave them like that. He left the room only to return with a light comforter. Gently he covered them, pulling the comforter almost to their chins. Katrine gave a big sigh, and almost in unison Célestine sighed too as they slept.

He went to the bathroom to shower. It smelled of lotions and sweet flowers. On a little line above the tub hung a few of their things.

"Clearly I'm outnumbered here," he muttered to himself.

Half an hour later, he was in sleepwear and dressing gown, using his fingers to run through his hair. Because he'd napped on the plane he was still wide awake. Walking into the lounge again, he cranked up the phonograph and played a recording, a Mozart violin concerto, the same one Célestine had played the previous morning. He gave a deep, satisfied sigh and sat back against the couch, closing his eyes as the soft strains of the concerto filled the room.

Someone touched his shoulder. Where was he? In the cold ditches of the Ardennes forest? Cradling a dying Linklater and feeling Compton's hand on him? But this touch was gentle, a caress that sought to bring him to the surface naturally.

When he opened his eyes, Katrine stood before him, her eyes kind and soft. He blinked several times, rubbing his eyes as he tried to get up. Katrine pushed him back then seated herself next to him.

"You were snoring," she stated.

"I do not - "

"Oh, you forget the number of times I dug my elbow in your ribs?"

"That was you?"

Katrine nodded, smiling kindly at him. How had he fallen asleep so quickly? Last he remembered he was listening to music. He frowned.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It has gone just after one o'clock."

"That late?" He realised the music must have stopped long ago.

"Yes, _mon amour_. Come, you are tired," she coaxed as she pulled him to his feet and led him to their bedroom.

Although his heart raced at the prospect of being in bed with her, Charles wondered when Katrine would start asking the questions he knew lay so close to the surface in her eyes. "I missed you, Charles," she whispered desperately against him when they lay in bed, her arm thrown over him.

He gave a sob as he turned to face her. "Thoughts of you, _mon amour_ , kept me alive, kept me going. I knew that if I fell in battle, that the knowledge of your love for me would have made it worthwhile. I prayed so hard those nights in winter that we would get through one more battle.

"That is very beautiful. I could not imagine parting in bad spirits before you went away..."

He pulled her on top of him. "Let me love you, Katrine..."

She smiled at his words and without speaking kissed him passionately, the heat springing between them at the touch.

" _Charles...Charles_..." she cried softly, tears spilling from her as he made love to her, revelling in reacquainting themselves through touch, gentle caresses, little cries of joy. It was sweet and desperate, over too quickly for they had both been starved, feeding their hunger with ravenous indulgence. Later, after a short slumber, they woke again and this time Charles showed his wife just how he could never live without her, worshipping her body and she, his queen, letting him trail hot, burning lips all over her.

When they lay sated, she asked him only one question in a sleepy voice, "How did you know it was Célestine?"

"She played a violin solo with the camp orchestra. It was a parade to honour the courageous in battle, to award new promotions - "

"You are a colonel now."

"Yes. Then when the orchestra played, I saw this child play the violin. That was the first time I saw her. I knew it was her, although she was given another name. She looked at the audience, then she caught my eye and smiled at me just like you smile, Katrine. Right at that moment I fell ill."

Katrine gasped, then sat bolt upright in the dark room hardly able to see him. "What?"

"Palpitations that caused me to lose consciousness."

" _Charles_! What time did that happen?"

"Around eleven o'clock - "

" _C'est un miracle_! I suffered palpitations at the same time and when I came to, found myself in hospital! It is a miracle!"

"Did you suspect anything at that moment?"

"Nothing!"

"I do believe these strange things can happen," Charles said, pulling her down against him.

"So tell me, did you receive an award for being courageous in battle?"

Charles did not respond for a full ten seconds.

"Did you, _Charles_?"

"Yes. The Congressional Medal of Honour - "

"Is that like the _Ordre national de la Légion d'honneur?"_

He sighed. He understood and could converse in French. "Yes, Katrine."

" _Charles_! That means it is America's highest award for bravery!"

"Yes, Katrine."

"And - and when will you receive the award officially?"

"May, next year."

"I love you, my brave, gentle, sometimes angry warrior!" Katrine said softly, planting a kiss on his lips, then lay back, sighing because she was so happy.

They lay in silence, contemplating the wonder of minds and hearts that could experience the same things, like the discovery that a daughter thought dead was alive.

They fell asleep, this time the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Charles stirred first, the soft strains of a violin sonata teasing him into wakefulness. He opened his eyes to search in the semi dark for the origin of the music until he found it. He smiled and wondered how he could be so supremely happy this early in the morning.

Célestine smiled back in the same way she had two mornings ago when he heard her for the first time. Next to him, Katrine stirred, moaning in delight as she felt his body, so reassuring, so loving. Then she too opened her eyes, seeing the young girl playing for them, her smile never fading.

" _Bonjour, Maman...Papa.._."

"Good morning, Célestine. You are up early," Charles said as he raised himself on his elbow.

"I wanted to play for you."

"But, my dear," said Katrine, "I put your violin away - "

"This is my Tononi," Célestine said proudly as she finished the piece and sat on the bed, plonking herself between her parents.

"Célestine! Do you have any idea how valuable that violin is? Any idea at all?"

"Herr von Wangenheim gave it to me. He said I could make better use of it since he doesn't play it so well."

"Who is Herr von Wangenheim?"

Charles intervened before Célestine could respond. She had meanwhile clambered on her mother's side under the blankets.

"He is one of the good guys," Charles said softly, hoping that Katrine would understand. "You can read the report later today."

"Oh, so now I have to wait for my daughter and husband until they decide when to tell me anything!"

"Do not worry, _Maman._ Herr von Wangenheim did not hurt me at all."

Charles felt Katrine stiffen next to him. He knew what was going on in her mind. He had almost beaten von Wangenheim to a pulp even before the man could defend himself. It was a natural response which neither he nor Katrine could help. It was going to be a long time before Célestine would tell them much of her experiences in the camp. It seemed as if she was pushing all the memories away from her. Right now, she was simply overjoyed. She kissed her mother, then lunged at him so hard that she knocked the wind from him before kissing him.

"Did you know, Papa, that I dreamed of you?"

"No, honey. I didn't know."

"I dreamed a soldier with a - a _losange rouge_ was waiting for me, to take me away from the camp."

"You did?" he asked, surprised. "Red diamond, huh."

"Yes, then I saw you sitting there in the second row behind that other giant soldier, and I smiled because I knew you had come for me..."

He couldn't stop staring at Célestine with her shining eyes, her red lips, her animated face, her joy at being with her mother and him, her new father. It was a moment filled with peace, with serenity and he wanted the feeling to last forever. He wanted to lie in, with Katrine so insistent next to him and Célestine watching the two of them, assessing them, it seemed. Her own father had died the same day they were taken away by the Germans. She had made her peace with the fact he was never going to be in her life again except as a gentle memory. Charles sat up and hugged Célestine spontaneously, feeling how Katrine also raised herself to join in the hug. When he could breathe at last, he gazed at them with some intent.

"Okay ladies, why don't you two get up and leave me to sleep a few minutes longer? Fix breakfast or something."

"Yes, _Maman_! I want cornflakes!" Célestine responded, at the same time almost jumping off the bed, then grabbing the Tononi before rushing to her own room.

"Cornflakes. Our daughter wants cornflakes... How American is that?"

And Katrine looked at her husband who looked very innocent in that moment. It was going to be a very good day, Charles decided, when they would take their daughter later to the city to shop for clothing and other necessities.

"I love you, Charles Anson Miller."

END CHAPTER NINETEEN


	21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY

 **Day 1 - Monday 16 April 1945**

Because he was still on active duty, Charles wore his uniform. He drove them around the city, stopping wherever Katrine wanted to shop for something. Célestine was dressed in one of her own dresses which her mother had kept. Even though Katrine had bought it a size larger at the time, the dress was still too small for their daughter.

Célestine's excitement was infectious. The first store they entered she couldn't stand still as she pointed to garments and shoes. He just stood to one side and shrugged and smiled when the senior assistant looked at him with a query in her eyes. He didn't want to talk, but simply enjoy watching Katrine and Célestine going through dresses, little skirts and blouses while Célestine kept saying, "I like this one, _Maman_!" Then his heart would contract when Katrine would reply "Would you like two or three more of these?" and Célestine would answer with great uncertainty, "Can I?"

He'd been right in thinking that Célestine's demands were small. But she needed an entire wardrobe. Katrine was basically purchasing enough clothing and undergarments and two pairs of shoes for the first week.

He was proud of Katrine. She was smart and kind, never pressuring Célestine, allowing their daughter to set the pace. Occasionally Célestine would turn to him in a dress she'd tried on, twirl and ask him "How do I look, Papa?" It was painful yet a joy to watch her.

"You look stunning, honey."

"St-stunning?" she stammered, uncertain of the meaning.

"Beautiful. You look very beautiful."

She would rush to hug him before Katrine gently guided her back to the cubicle to try on something else. Once they were done, he'd carry the parcels to the Peugeot which Katrine had christened Clotilde. She'd remarked something about getting a new car and gifting Clotilde to Lamine. They'd contacted Lamine and Charles's mother and stepfather, as well as Edward, about the astounding discovery that Célestine was still alive and had survived Buchenwald.

He needed to be back home in the States to see them all and sort out his affairs which included the used car dealership Lansing had owned. He wanted to adopt Célestine formally and he needed to talk to Katrine about making the United States her home. Sighing, he drove on while his girls were chatting away. Célestine was dressed in a new outfit and her new shoes. She looked very pretty and would certainly become a beauty like her mother.

"Where to now?"

" _Hats &Accessories_, just further down this road. It used to be owned by Jules Goldman - "

"Goldman, huh."

"French Jew."

"Oh."

"Célestine needs ribbons, Alice bands and combs. I need a few things too - "

"I need a drink."

"That can wait, _Charles_."

"Good. I'll just drive on and die of thirst - "

"No! No!" Célestine cried out in distress. "Please, don't die!"

Charles stopped the vehicle at the side of the road. He turned to look at the crying Célestine.

"I am so sorry, honey. I upset you. Please, I didn't mean to upset you, okay?"

Katrine got out and joined Célestine in the back seat, nodding to him to continue. She spoke in calm tones to Célestine, assuring her once again that her papa didn't mean to distress her.

"She's fine now, Charles," she said, but he could swear it was in a "I'll get you later" tone.

When they arrived at the haberdashery, the shop window displayed hats and berets and scarfs for ladies. The owner smiled as they entered. He looked to be about forty, very thin and tall, almost as tall as Charles.

"What can I do for you, young ladies?"

Katrine said, "Ribbons, bands, combs, pins."

Then Célestine raised her hand and pointed to a hat on a little stand. "Please, could I have that one?"

Then the proprietor took Célestine's hand, turning it so that he looked on the inside of her forearm. There it was, for everyone to see, her tattooed ID camp number. Célestine pulled her arm away quickly, covering it with her right hand.

"It is okay, Mademoiselle. I am so sorry - " he started when he saw how Célestine cowered against Charles.

"Please, she only returned yesterday - " Katrine said.

The proprietor nodded. "Yes, I understand Buchenwald was liberated last week." He turned to Célestine, touched her shoulder gently. Then he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and showed her the inside of his right forearm. There was a tattooed number also. "See, little girl? I know and I understand your pain. You were very brave to have survived."

Célestine touched his arm in studied reverence. Charles knew she was thinking about how she'd been told to do whatever it took to survive. Then impulsively, Célestine hugged the man.

"I'm sorry, but where is old man Jules Goldman?"

"My father? He did not survive the harsh conditions. He went - " The son stopped suddenly, his eyes growing dark and sad. "He died in the gas chambers."

"You were in Auschwitz?"

"My name is Francois Goldman. Yes, I survived. The camp was liberated in January. I came home as soon as I could. Very happy to be back in France."

But they could see he'd lost much that still pained him. Charles knew that Francois too would live with the scars for the rest of his life.

They concluded their business and had lunch at a lovely bistro. After that, they drove around as Célestine wanted to see more landmarks and walk along the banks of the Seine holding his hand, often stopping to hug him or Katrine.

They went home tired but happy. Célestine entertained them with violin sonatas and the Mozart Lullaby. Katrine told her more about the Tononi, that it was made by Carlo Tononi in the early 18th century.

"Just like the Stradivarius, this violin is very valuable. It is in excellent condition. We'll ask Maestro Sargozy, your old tutor, to appraise it for us."

"I will keep both violins, _Maman_!"

"That's my girl!"

Later that day, Célestine sat on the couch while her parents stood in front of her, close to the fireplace. She thought they looked very serious. She loved her Maman, but she loved her new Papa just as much. She hardly ever thought about her own papa who had died before her eyes. He was gone and her memory of him was getting dimmer and dimmer. Sometimes when she thought about him, she wondered if he was sad or glad that she loved her new father so much.

When she had seen Colonel Miller's face the first time, she knew that he was a kind man who would not hurt her. She liked his dimples, but she liked him for more than his dimples. She could not quite explain why she loved him so much. Maybe one day she would understand, but right now it confused her. She tried not to think about it so much, because it gave her a headache.

"What is it, _Maman_?" she asked, a little scared that her papa might leave them and never come back.

"Papa wants to adopt you as his own little girl."

"But - but am I not his daughter already? Did he not marry you?"

"Yes, honey," her father replied. "But when I adopt you, we make it official with the magistrate, and then your last name will no longer be Du Plessis."

"Will I be Célestine Miller?"

She saw them both smile. They looked very happy. She was happy!

"Yes, honey," Papa said softly.

"Why are you crying?"

Then they laughed and cried while they hugged her. When they calmed again, Charles sat down next to her.

"Célestine, there is something I must tell you."

"What is it, Papa?"

"You see, Papa has a little boy at home he's also going to adopt. His name is Evan and he is three years old."

"Is Evan going to be my little brother?"

"Yes, sweetie."

"Holy mackerel!"

"Célestine! Where did you hear that?" Charles asked.

"He said his name is Rheddam Compton. He says it a lot!"

 **Detroit - 17 April 1945**

The telephone rang insistently, its loud ringing piercing the dream-filled sleep of Althea Miller-Wachinski. She sat up slowly, her hand reaching for the telephone on her bedside table. Next to her Isaac began to stir awake. Althea looked at the watch.

"Good morning, is that the Miller-Wachinski residence?"

'Yes?" Althea frowned at the distant sounding female voice.

"Is that Althea Miller-Wachinski?"

"Speaking."

"Mrs Wachinski, please hold the line for a transatlantic call from Colonel Charles Miller."

"Charles?"

"Is it Charlie?" Isaac asked, sitting upright next to his wife. She nodded.

"Hello, Mama!"

"Charles! My goodness, do you realise what time it is here?"

"Six a.m., I know!"

"Oh, it's so good to hear your voice, son." Isaac spoke loud so Charles could also hear his greeting.

"Mama, I have something to tell you - "

"I know, son, you married Katrine!"

"Yes, that too."

Althea heard Katrine also greet her. "Hello, Katrine, it is good to be speaking to you!" Althea spoke in French which pleased Charles and surprised Katrine. Althea heard Katrine ask Charles to explain to her later why he'd never told her his mother could speak some French.

"What other news is so fantastic?"

"You remember that Katrine's first husband died, right? I think Edward told you."

"Yes, and her little girl."

"When we liberated the Buchenwald concentration camp, I found Célestine alive. She has survived by the most extraordinary circumstances, Mama. Just know that you have a new granddaughter who will be ten years old in September. I will write you a letter explaining everything. Please let Edward know so that he can tell those scientists who enquired after her that her daughter has survived."

Althea was crying while she held the phone. Then she heard Katrine's voice. For a few minutes they spoke in French, although Althea's wasn't half as good, but she managed.

"I would like to see you soon, _Maman_ ," Katrine said. Again Althea wanted to cry.

"I would love that. We are not a big family, but we are family now. Thank you for loving my son."

Charles took the phone again and on behalf of Katrine and Célestine said goodbye to her and Isaac.

Minutes later Althea whispered, "I have another daughter and she is a good person. I love her already. She has made Charles happy and that is good. It is very good."

"I am happy that you are happy, my love. Now, shall we go back to sleep again?"

 **Daisy Ginsburg's report**

Katrine read the report that Charles had compiled, the testimony of Daisy Ginsberg and Helmut von Wangenheim. Tears were streaming down her face. Just the thought that Célestine had survived the conditions and circumstances sketched by Daisy horrified her. The vilest things she could think of that could happen to women in the camp, had happened, and her little girl was fortunate to escape that atrocities committed by depraved soldiers and officers.

She had lived in St. Clair for two years and had seen what control in the hands of soldiers who been ordinary workmen, down and out men, labourers, some of them illiterate, could do. They committed crimes, sexually abused the women of the town, publicly executed anyone they suspected of being spies. They sent more than six hundred villagers of a small town to their deaths, locking the women and children in the church and killing them all, while the men were burnt to death in a barn. She wept for them.

Here in France, the atrocities had been no less severe than those committed in Germany, in Poland, in Austria, in Belgium and Czechoslovakia. She had yearned then for a France that would be free of the terrible oppression that had kept it enslaved for four years.

She had no illusions about what had happened in the camps. The little Charles spoke about Buchenwald, about finding hundreds of bodies lying stacked like cord wood after many Germans were gone was enough to make anyone's hair stand on end. She wept for those who had died needlessly.

Her hands trembled as she held the pages of the report, unable to shake off the feelings of total sorrow, the same feelings that had been part of her for so long, since Joseph and Célestine had been taken from her. She thought of Daisy Ginsberg's words, how she had placed her body to shield young children, most of them girls, to be used by the soldiers, how she'd comfort the children, holding their hands even while she was powerless to prevent the poor little girl's body from being covered by a German officer, how she'd walk them to the barracks comforting them. She wept for them.

Katrine blinked as blinding flashes of anger and distress made her think about how time after time Daisy had offered her body so that the soldier or officer couldn't get hold of Célestine, how she was herself whored by men in the camp. She read how Helmut von Wangenheim had stepped in and protected Célestine, discovering that her daughter could play the violin, how she went twice a week to practise as long as she wanted, just so that he could prolong the period that she would be safe.

She read about how the child fell ill with typhus, how the doctor ordered von Wangenheim to keep her in his quarters and to let Daisy take care of her, how things changed for the better.

Katrine considered herself well read in most of the great French classics apart from her scientific literature. In any era and society, the human condition was tested when individuals were given power. Hitler represented absolute power, she thought, adopted by all who raised their hands in the "Heil Hitler!" salute. She remembered reading a memoir of a great British politician who declared, "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men." Such was Hitler and his cohorts and every officer and soldier who fought in the name of the Reich. While some had a conscience of sorts, what served as their moral compass? An immoral Führer?

And what of the converse? There were German men and women who acted with great compassion, who tried as best they could to help because they were good people? Men like von Wangenheim who tried his best, and who had been instrumental in hiding the children from his depraved colleagues. He was a decent man who appeared untainted by the moral decay around him. Were it not for him... Katrine shuddered just at the thought of what might have happened to Célestine.

She would be eternally grateful for women like Daisy Ginsberg. About Helmut von Wangenheim she would reserve judgment, because the damage to her personally by a man who had no morals, and to France and every inmate in a concentration camp, still lay too close to the surface to forgive. That would take time.

She'd hardly been aware that Charles was holding her very close to him. She reveled in the closeness, needing him because he sensed that she would. Sighing, she rested her head against him.

"Thank you, _Charles_ ," she said softly. "Now I know what our little girl has gone through. She watched people shot dead in front of her - her father, other women who were too weak to stand up straight in the winter cold, Maestro Dobrinski. How traumatic must that not have been for a child?"

"For Célestine it is over. There are still other camps that must be liberated."

"I know. I am glad the war is drawing to a close. I listen to radio news and I know the Allied Powers are closing in from the east."

"You know there will be a trial, don't you?"

"I thought there might be. Why do you ask?"

"I'm thinking mainly of Célestine. I want to protect her. She must not be hurt any longer."

"She is only a child!"

"Exactly!"

 **Day 2 - Tuesday 17 April 1945**

Early spring brought bright flowers and purple irises covering the graveyard like a soft blanket. They stood at a grave with a small headstone.

"Your papa is buried here, sweetheart."

They watched as Célestine quietly stood before them, bending down and touching the headstone with her father's name on it.

"But that is my name," she said as she touched the engraved letters of her name.

"When we were told you had died, I put your name there. But you know who the child is, don't you?"

"Yes, _Maman_. It is Zannah Ginsberg."

"We are putting a new headstone here with her name on it, so that her mother, Daisy, can know her little girl lies here."

A hot tear rolled down Célestine's cheek as she stood up and looked at them. "I am sorry that she died, _Maman_. That day Papa was sick, and the soldiers beat him in the house and outside. Papa was confused. He thought Zannah was me. Zannah was also sick. Then they shot her and she fell down. She didn't make a sound."

Charles had wondered if they were doing the right thing to bring Célestine to the graveyard to see her father's grave. But they had made the decision together. If Célestine spoke about what happened, that would assist in her recovery, allow her to find closure. They did not hurry her, instead, they allowed her natural progression from day to day to determine when she'd speak and feel the need to share her experiences.

"She saved your life, Célestine. Perhaps if you think like that, it might not hurt so much."

Célestine nodded wordlessly, then reached for the Tononi which she had insisted on bringing, removed it from the case and settled the instrument against her neck. With the sun kissing her hair and eyes as well as the strings of the violin, Célestine began stroking the bow across the strings in a sublime rendering of the Mozart Lullaby. They could see tears flowing down her cheeks and wondered where her thoughts roamed.

Charles knew that the young girl played it often. He knew from Lamine's account of his friendship with the family, that she'd played the Lullaby for him too when he had been very ill with a raging fever.

The music floated over the cemetery. People visiting graves of their loved ones glanced up from their reveries to listen to the music. Charles thought they smiled indulgently, perhaps grateful for the accompaniment to their soft spoken words of comfort to a loved one. In the distance, Charles saw a woman who looked about Katrine's age standing with two young children who could not be more than five or six years old.

The woman looked pointedly in their direction. Charles wondered if the stranger knew Katrine or Célestine, or just loved hearing the violin.

"Do you know that woman over there?" he asked Katrine.

Katrine gazed in the direction Charles pointed with his chin and frowned, shaking her head. "No, I do not know her, although there is something familiar about the boy."

"Do you mind?" he asked, and when she shook her head again, he made his way to where the woman stood. Who knew? Her husband could have been in the French legions and fallen during the German purge of the city. It wouldn't hurt to ask, he thought to himself.

When he reached the trio, he cleared his throat.

"Uh, excuse me," he asked in French. "Do you mind very much if I ask whom you are mourning? I saw you looking our way."

The two boys were curious, tugging at her dress. She didn't respond, instead, she looked at the gravestone.

Only when he followed her eyes did he also look. Then he drew in his breath. If Katrine and Lamine Bhoutayeb had not spoken often about the man in the most negative tones, he might never have known. On the gravestone was engraved the name _Lucien Claude Blériot_.

For an instant, he felt rage, then allowed the it to seep from him. The wife and children were not part of the Blériot guilt. They were innocent, he could see it in the eyes of the woman, the clear expressions of the boys who appeared to be twins.

"I'm sorry, I am Colonel Charles Miller." He held his hand to her to shake it.

"My name is Charlotte Blériot. You knew my husband?" she asked as he released her hand.

How could he tell her? But Charlotte took that responsibility from him.

"That woman, is she Katrine du Pléssis-Blumenthal?"

"Katrine, yes, but she is now Miller."

She nodded her understanding.

"Could you tell her, tell her, my husband was not a very good man. I loved him when he was engaged to her. When she broke their engagement, he married me. I knew what he was. I wanted to leave him in 1939 when he began to betray our own people. Then I found I was pregnant. I did leave him to live in another town. Please, will you tell her I am sorry for what happened to her husband and child? Please?"

"Katrine," he said in measured tones, "has a heart of gold. She hated Blériot for a long time, but never ever held anything against his kin. Do not worry."

Charlotte smiled, the lines of strain leaving her face. "I must go. It has been a pleasure meeting you - "

"Wait," he started, and she paused, "do you see the little girl over there?" Charlotte nodded. "That is her daughter. The day your husband betrayed them, her husband was shot dead in the forest, but another child died with him that day. That little girl playing the violin is Célestine du Pléssis-Miller. She survived."

Charlotte gazed long at Célestine who was still playing. Then she said, "Thank you, Colonel. Thank you."

Charlotte Blériot left the cemetery, her tread lighter, the boys skipping along. When Charles joined Katrine again, she asked him about the woman.

"Charlotte Blériot." Charles watched the emotions flickering across her features, her eyes going soft.

"I hold nothing against his wife and children," she said at last. "They are innocent. Did you - ?"

"No, I didn't tell her how he died. She believes he took his own life."

Katrine nodded, circling his waist with her arm as they waited for Célestine to finish before they left for St. Clair.

 **St. Clair - again!**

Lamine Bhoutayeb blinked. Then he blinked again. It was midday and Solange had gone to prepare the _Coeur de Lion_ for the evening's events. A vehicle had stopped just outside the house Katrine used to own in which he and Solange now lived.

Through the window he saw the car stop. It was old Clotilde, Katrine's Peugeot. He was glad she'd come to visit again. He'd missed her. She was now married to Charles Miller. He smiled when Charles got out of the car. He was in military dress, though the insignias were different, he noticed. As he reached for the front door and opened it, a third person alighted from the back seat of the car.

Even as Katrine and Charles Miller smiled in welcome, a flurry of movement caught his eye.

"Lamine! Lamine!"

She was in his arms hugging him tightly. He was stunned, the apparition an unbelievable reality. He had no idea that he was weeping, or when the child in his arms pulled away and started babbling in French about how she missed him.

All he could do was look at Katrine, completely confused, too afraid to express joy. He gave a few sobs as Katrine tugged his arm to guide him inside the house, Célestine in tow.

Again Célestine couldn't stop touching him, saying, "I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!"

When they'd all calmed down, Charles explained how he found Célestine in the Buchenwald camp. Katrine explained how the confusion arose, while Célestine herself told Lamine about Daisy Ginsberg and how Maman Daisy made her promise to keep pretending she was the other girl and to do whatever it took to stay alive in the camp.

Lamine's eyes remained tear-filled for the entire time they spoke. Charles talked about the cemetery and how they would have a new headstone made with Zannah Ginsberg's name on it. He told Lamine about Charlotte Blériot who apologised for her husband's iniquities. She knew what her husband had been and had decided to live away from him because she knew he betrayed many of his countrymen.

Then Lamine began to speak to Célestine. He told her how he and Katrine searched all over France, Belgium and parts of Germany for her, even visiting some of the concentration camps. He told Célestine how her mother had gone almost mad with worry and fear for her child and how he had to comfort her many times. He told Célestine how he kept telling Katrine, "We live to fight another day."

"We only came to St. Clair when your great-great-uncle passed away at the beginning of 1943. By that time we had been given confirmation that you had died."

He told her how the Germans came to tell her mother that her husband Joseph and daughter Célestine had died, and how months later they found Joseph's and Zannah's bodies.

Then Lamine looked at Célestine's arm and touched the tattooed number, shaking his head and clicking his tongue, weeping again when he thought what it meant. Then he hugged her again.

'I love you so much, little one. I am glad you are with us and that your mother is happy now.

"And Papa," Célestine said firmly.

Lamine looked at Charles, then back at her. "Yes, I can see that."

Just as Katrine started to say something, the door burst open and in flew Brigitte and Berry with their six month old _Charles_.

"Charles! Katrine!" they cried together. "We missed you. And who is this beautiful munchkin? No, don't tell us! She is your long lost daughter who was dead and is alive!" crowed Berry.

"We thought she was, Berry," Charles explained while Brigitte plonked the baby Charles in Katrine's lap and bent to shake Célestine's hand. "I found her in the camp."

"How did you know it was her?"

"Just look at them. They look remarkably alike. That was the first thing, and secondly, Katrine told me that Célestine was a violinist, a child prodigy. She was playing the violin when I realised it was her."

It was a happy gathering.

"And what is this gorgeous baby's name?" Charles asked as he tickled the baby's chin.

"Why, I thought I'd told you, Charles!" cried Katrine. "His name is Charles Bertrand Beaumont!

"Just wanted to hear it again, a little squirt named after me. He's the second one!"

"Our next baby will be 'Katrine' if it's a girl," Brigitte crowed happily.

Later, Brigitte and Berry left to find their regular babysitter who would take baby Charles while his parents joined them later in the evening in the _Coeur de Lion_. Solange was over the moon to see them. Katrine had given her one look before she explained, "I will give birth in three months time."

They thoroughly enjoyed the time in the restaurant. Katrine and Charles decided to stay the night in the spare bedroom of her old home. Célestine would sleep on the big bed with her while Charles bunked down in the lounge. In the morning, they would sign the contract that would make the four of them equal partners in the restaurant, with Lamine and Solange running the place.

The next morning after breakfast, they took Célestine to Brigitte and Berry's house where their grandmother took the girl under her wings, speaking in rapid French which Charles found hard to follow. Célestine, though, seemed happy. Then they returned and the four of them left for the attorney's office where they would be signing documents. Charles felt once again privileged that Katrine was including him in the partnership.

Between them, they had sufficient funds to send Célestine to any school or music conservatoire. When they were finished, Katrine said, "And now you are a part owner of the _Coeur de Lion_."

"What better place than the one where we met!" he said and kissed her briefly. Solange and Lamine smiled. Charles could see how devoted they were to one another. He knew that Lamine was just as honoured to be a part of the deal, that Katrine offered her gratitude in that way, financially rewarding the young couple.

Charles and Katrine also visited Sandrine Desmarais who had just given birth to a baby girl, the child fathered by Eugene Linklater. Brigitte had told them how Sandrine wept through the birthing process for the man whom she loved, for her baby who would grow up without a daddy. She showed them a letter she had received from Eugene's parents, asking her permission if they could come to France to visit their grandchild whom she named Eugenie.

"Thank you," she said to Charles, "that you were with him at the end."

"He was thinking only of you, asking that I tell you that he loved you."

Sandrine nodded sadly, but smiled again as she looked at her little baby girl whom Charles could swear looked like Eugene. He was glad that his parents would visit to connect to their grandchild, perhaps even invite Sandrine to the States.

When they left that afternoon, everyone stood near the fountain in the square, waving as Charles drove the Peugeot down _Rue Sainte Agnes_ to Paris.

"It was good coming to St. Clair," he told Katrine.

"We should come more often."

He simply nodded, while Célestine answered with a resounding "yes!"

When they arrived home, they had a late supper, tired from the day's outing.

It was deep in the night when everyone was asleep that they were rudely awakened, confronted for the first time with the terrible reality of dreams.

 **The realities of their nightmares**

Charles heard the agonised wailing first. He shot up in bed just as Katrine also snapped suddenly awake.

"Célestine!" they cried simultaneously and rushed out of bed to their daughter's room. The bedside lamp was still burning, the low glow throwing the child in eerie silhouette as she lay thrashing her arms about, her head rolling from side to side even as her eyes remained closed.

"Célestine, oh my poor baby!" Katrine cried as she sat down on the bed next to the crying child.

"No, please, don't hurt me. Please don't put your hands there..."

"Shhh..." Katrine tried to console Célestine while Charles eased his weight down on the other side of the bed.

He tried to touch Célestine, but it was as if something white hot burned against her skin as she tried to move away from the source of her fear. Célestine, they realised, was still in deep slumber experiencing something terrifying. Every time they attempted to touch her, she tried to move away from them, a nameless fear taking hold of her. Katrine began weeping with her, her comforting words unable to penetrate the thickness of the petrifying fog in Célestine's dream.

Charles had once shaken a soldier who'd experienced similar nightmares. The young private had seen two of his comrades whose heads and bodies exploded right next to him. He had tried speaking to the soldier, lying in a snow-filled ditch of the Ardennes in the middle of the night. Then, unable to wake the infantryman Charles had gripped his shoulders and shaken him until his eyes had opened.

He would have to do the same with Célestine. He knew Katrine would be shocked, even outraged that he'd employ such a method, but he knew nothing else would bring the child out of her deadly nightmare.

"Please, Herr Götze, don't shoot me. Don't hurt me!"

And then the anger as Célestine cried, "Please, don't hurt my legs.! Take away your hand. Take it out!"

Out of desperation, Charles gripped the distraught child's slender shoulders and began shaking her hard. Her head lolled back and forth, frothing at the mouth.

"Wake up! Wake up, Célestine!" he cried urgently, but softly.

Then her eyes suddenly opened. She drew in her breath sharply, looking around, disoriented. Katrine had left to get a soft cloth and began wiping Célestine's mouth. Slowly recognition began to dawn.

" _Maman_? Papa?"

Katrine could hardly speak for the trembling of her lips and the tears that streamed down her cheeks. Charles released Célestine's shoulders.

She gave another agonised cry before throwing herself against them, sobbing, her body shuddering. They waited, let her cry until the crying stopped at last, and only gentle sobs escaped. They let her lie back against the pillows.

"I am sorry, _Maman_ ," Célestine whispered, looking suddenly embarrassed.

"Don't ever be, honey," Charles comforted her. "See, one of my soldiers also had such a nightmare and I had to shake him hard to wake him up. And he was also sorry. You mustn't be, okay?"

"I dreamed."

"We know, sweetie. It was a bad dream, huh?"

Célestine nodded. Katrine wiped the girl's flushed, heated face.

"Herr Götze he - he did bad things. He tried to - to do what he did with Maman Daisy... I didn't want him to touch me."

Charles felt a rage so great he got up and left the room. Célestine had been raped. Or nearly raped. What manner of man could be so debauched, so completely lacking in morals that he would do this to a child? Was Götze born bad? Charles felt momentarily helpless in his rage as he stomped and paced the lounge. He breathed in deeply, then snorted like a deranged bull to eject the fury in him. Minutes later he walked back to the child's room.

Katrine was lying with Célestine spooned against her. Their daughter was already drifting off to sleep again. He stepped forward and brushed her hair from her face. She gave a deep sigh before worming herself against her mother. Katrine looked at him, her signal immediately understood. She would join him later. When he returned to their bedroom he looked at the clock on the bedstand, surprised when he saw it was just after three o'clock.

They had been rudely awakened to the reality that their daughter would have nightmares, that the atrocities witnessed by her would manifest themselves in such a horrific way. He knew, realistically, that this was not Célestine's first nightmare nor would it be her last.

Two nights later, they were awakened by soft mewling and again they soothed Célestine, speaking softly to her. Charles didn't have to shake her like he had the first night. She had woken and lay on her back, her mouth moving but no words issuing from her. Again Katrine stayed with her until she fell asleep again.

They were worried. Charles had thought of having her seen by a doctor the next day. Perhaps a medical expert could give them advice on how to deal with Célestine's nightmares. Then again, he thought that what they were doing was the right thing. Love, care, understanding was what would work better than any medication.

He loved Célestine. She had crept into his heart and he felt his insides burning at the thought of what she had endured. Children were mostly resilient and he prayed that she was resilient enough to begin her own cure by being among people who loved her.

His mother, he knew, could work wonders with a child like Célestine. She had handled Edward throughout his illness, being patient and loving, and mostly making Edward understand that being different meant just that. He had a brain, a heart that loved, feet and arms that moved. While Célestine's tribulations were primarily of an emotional and subconscious nature, Althea Miller would be able to help her new granddaughter to heal.

"After the war, Katrine, we must go home, to America..."

 **And Charles…**

He was running and his chest burned from the exertion. It was dark, night had settled early in the forest. All he could see against the snow weakly lit by a waning moon were trees standing like old sentries, clad in white with eyes staring back from the bark.

He held his rifle at an aggressive angle. He would shoot anything that moved in front of him. There was the sound of a lot of shooting from both sides, followed by screams that rent the cold, silent air above the noise of gunfire, with grenades that rolled and exploded not fifteen yards away from him. He ducked, dived, was up swiftly, firing at will.

"Die! You sons-of-bitches!"

Then the lull in the firing, his men going down one by one. A tree split in half by a thundering panzer tearing into the uneasy silence. Men yelling, screaming as he rushed forward, flinging the grenade at the panzer while one of his men - was it Riley? - launched a grenade from his rifle, aiming for the hatch as soon as it lifted. Blood and body parts spurting into the cold air. Dead Germans in the hold, bloody mess.

"Captain! Captain!"

He ran to where the last men were holding off panzer fire.

"Linklater!"

"Sorry, Cappy. Please let Sandrine know I loved her. I loved her, Cappy!"

An angry branch pierced Linklater's chest, blood spurting all over his face and coat. He tried pulling out the branch.

"Too late, Cappy. I'm going. It - was - an - honour - serving - under - you - Captain - - - Miller."

"No!" Charlie shout as he noticed Linklater's legs were shot clean off. He was bleeding to death.

"Helluva fight..."

"Don't you go dying on me, Eugene! Goddam those sons-of-bitches! Don't you go dyin' on me!"

 _Dying on me...dying on me... dying on me..._

A voice coming from a great distance, traveling on the cold night air, calling him. It called his name over and over, tearing him away from the snow clad trees that looked like tall, grotesque Day of the Dead dolls, away from the deep blood-stained snow, away from a tree branch in a soldier's chest, away from appendages that lay lifeless in the snow, away from a dead soldier's body. It came nearer and nearer to him until he could discern it as if a mouth breathed his name into his ear.

Charles opened his eyes slowly to find Katrine bending over him, her eyes dark with concern, full of tears. He was wet through, bathed in sweat. She touched his cheek, her hand coming away wet. He gasped once, twice, before trying to sit up, but a gentle hand pressed him down. His heart was racing, racing out of control. He felt a momentary dizziness, glad that Katrine pressed him down as he experienced a sensation of falling from a great height.

She leaned against him and began speaking in soft tones, her voice low and melodious as only Katrine could speak. She spoke about how he comforted their daughter and how she calmed because of his voice and mostly, because he loved her so much. She told him about Thaïs of Egypt and the man who loved her until her death in a convent, how a composer named Jules Massenet wrote the opera based on the story. He lay listening mostly to her voice for it calmed his demons.

He saw Katrine cast her eyes to the door, only then noticing Célestine standing there with her Tononi primed to play.

Then he wept as the most beautiful music filled the room, so beautiful he could not stop the tears dripping onto his pillow. The shaking of his body subsided gradually, captivated by the music which he thought must have come from heaven. His eyes closed and soon he fell into the blessed release of slumber.

When the music stopped, Célestine came to stand next to her mother, her eyes filled with tears.

"Will Papa be okay, _Maman_? Did he have a nightmare, like me?"

Katrine nodded, reaching for her daughter, making her sit down on her side of the bed.

"He had a bad dream, sweetheart. He is fine now. It will get better. Come, sleep now..."

So she let the child snuggle behind her while she lay spooned to Charles. She thought with some agony how she had two damaged persons whom she loved with all her heart, whom she would comfort until the comforting exhausted her. But, she decided, it would be her labour of love to see them through their nightmares and one day - she was certain that day would come - they would both be free of the tight, tight chains that bound them to their dreams.

She felt herself drifting until she gave in to the swirls of sleep that had already overtaken Célestine and Charles.

When dawn broke bleakly over the Paris skyline, Charles woke. He turned to see that Katrine and Célestine still lay fast asleep. He smiled, his heart burning as he bent to kiss them. Then he got up quietly and headed to the kitchen where he set about fixing breakfast for them.

 **Buchenwald 18 - 30 April 1045**

The town of Weimar was more like a small city, situated just west of the Buchenwald concentration camp. After the Americans crossed the Rhine, the airborne divisions were stationed on the perimeter of Weimar, controlling its important airfield.

The moment Buchenwald was liberated, in fact, in the few days prior to the liberation, many of the camp's prisoners had escaped after they had overpowered the minions that were the German foot soldiers. These prisoners were the real lawbreakers - habitual criminals, hard, uncompromising men who'd been sentenced for crimes like serious assault, murder, armed robbery and rape, who were also interned at Buchenwald.

After escaping from the camp, they'd gone on the rampage in Weimar. Houses were raided and razed to the ground, German women and their daughters were gang raped while their husbands and fathers were forced to watch. They looted buildings, taking anything of value. Reprisal was the ugly face of Germany in the aftermath of camp liberations. Dachau camp had been the hardest hit in the wake of its liberation by the 42nd and 45th Infantry Divisions.

After the Weimar constabulary managed to effect some calm in the town, damage had already been done to many buildings. Those they caught were imprisoned again and some were quickly executed after short trials.

Charles thought how it was possible that their incarceration in Buchenwald, their wretched abuse at the hands of the soldiers and officers at the camp, their taste for sexual debaucheries were sharpened by the perpetrators of prostitution. Often French Jews - men and women and sometimes children - were thrown to these immoral individuals who indulged in the same wickedness of the very soldiers who were responsible for their privation and hunger.

It was a sad commentary indeed, he thought, when the people of the town were subjected to the same wickedness as those who had been interned in the camp. German women and the aged once believed they had enjoyed immunity from such horrific treatment for were they not protected by a red flag bearing the symbol of the swastika? Were they not the herrenvolk, their dictator's dream of a perfect society for Germany? The Americans stationed at the airfield knew very little or even cared, Charles supposed, about what happened to the inhabitants of Weimar.

It was so easy to adopt a creed of "an eye for an eye." Anger, he thought, made many freed inmates of the concentration camp engage in retribution as harsh as the treatment they themselves had been subjected to.

Charles sighed where he sat in a pew of the small magistrate building's courtroom and looked around him. Célestine sat in front at a table on a chair that had been raised by a pillow on the seat. From time to time she turned to look at her parents. In front sat an American judge, Judge F. Winstone McAllister, brought in to oversee war crimes trials in Germany. While the war still raged, it would be over very soon. They'd received radio communication that the Russians were practically on the doorstep of Berlin.

He glanced at Katrine, smiling bleakly. They had had another full blown argument a week ago. He'd already left for Buchenwald to oversee the logistics for the removal of the freed inmates who were still there and the upcoming trials of the war criminals.

He'd been confronted by General Erikson the morning after he'd arrived.

"The lawyers for Schiller, Götze, von Wangenheim and Gaertner have requested that your daughter be called to give evidence."

"Here? In Buchenwald?" he'd asked, quite astonished that they'd want a child to testify. "Do you know what will happen, General? They're going to eat that child alive. I cannot let her go through it. Célestine has been through too much. She suffers debilitating nightmares. No, no, please, don't ask it of us..."

"Speak to your wife, Colonel Miller. Hear what she has to say. We'll think of alternative measures."

So he phoned Katrine. Her initial joy at hearing his voice soon turned to ill-contained fury. They'd argued. He'd told her they were aware of his own objections. Katrine had been overwrought, with Célestine suddenly wailing in the background, crying she didn't ever want to see Buchenwald again.

"Katrine, Célestine has been summoned to testify in the trial of von Wangenheim primarily - "

"I don't care right now, _Charles._ Has Célestine not suffered enough?"

"Do you want to see von Wangenheim sentenced to death?"

"Let others testify. Célestine is a child! _Elle n'a que neuf ans, pour l'amour de Dieu_ _!_ "

"But, Katrine!"

"No, _Charles_! I will not give my permission!"

"Do you think I want Célestine to go through this trial? I feel the same, Katrine, but her testimony is critical to von Wangenheim's fate, at least."

He'd heard her sigh on the other end of the line. Katrine was fair, and although she'd never met von Wangenheim, knew that Célestine had been attached to him, that he'd never touched Célestine, that he'd treated her with respect and allowed her to continue her music in his quarters.

"Please try your best if you can avoid this, _Charles_. Please."

And so he tried. He'd gone back to General Erikson, once again explaining their stance. Erikson had rubbed his chin, looking deep in thought. Then he'd looked at Charles, his face suddenly alight, as if he'd just had an epiphany.

"Tell me, Colonel, if we were to move the courtroom to Weimar, have our lawyers and judge there as well as a female nurse and female paralegal, with only your daughter present as well as her parents, would that be acceptable?"

Charles had to admit that he hadn't thought of that possibility. It would considerably lessen the angst that she might experience.

"And the defendants?"

"We could have only von Wangenheim present?"

He'd nodded. Then he called Katrine again. She was much happier with the new arrangements. Katrine and Célestine had been flown from the Paris military airfield. He'd waited for them at the Weimar airport. Célestine had run as fast as her legs could carry her and virtually jumped into his waiting arms.

"I missed you, Papa! When will you come home to us?"

He'd explained very patiently to her that it was still war, that he'd be away for at least a month. He'd taken them to a small hotel where he'd booked two rooms for them. Katrine had briefed their daughter on what was expected, that she needn't be afraid. The lawyers would all be dressed in uniform as well as the paralegal lady and female nurse. She could direct her answers to them. Only von Wangenheim would be in the dock. When she asked about the others, they told her that she could decide herself whether she wanted to see Schiller, Gaertner and Götze.

Today was the third day of the trials. Célestine was only one of many inmates who gave evidence. He'd bristled a little when the American lawyer tried to drive Célestine in a corner. He'd felt like getting up and decking the offensive officer.

 _She's only a child, goddammit!_ he wanted to shout.

"Did Oberleutnant von Wangenheim hurt you?"

Célestine shook her head.

"Did you like Oberleutnant von Wangenheim?"

When Célestine hesitated before she answered, the lawyer stood right by her. Charles wanted to get up and remove Célestine from the room. The innuendo was not lost on all who sat in the little room.

"Speak up, child," the lawyer demanded. At which point the Judge Advocate McAllister cautioned the lawyer.

"Please bear in mind, Lieutenant Kearsney, that Mademoiselle du Pléssis spent almost three years in the camp."

He could well have said, "Go easy on the child."

When he finished his questioning, Charles was proud of the way Célestine handled herself. The German lawyer stepped up.

"Who is that man sitting there?" he asked, pointing at von Wangenheim.

"Herr Oberleutnant von Wangenheim."

Von Wangenheim sat quite still in the dock, hardly moving. Charles thought he was already expecting a severe sentence.

"Can you tell us what happened the first night von Wangenheim called you to his rooms? What did you think he was going to do to you?"

"I thought he was going to hurt me..." Célestine paused again, a little unsettled as the memory of that night plagued her.

"Can you tell me what they did to the girls in the camp?"

"They cut and scratched their thighs, between their legs."

"Did Oberleutnant von Wangenheim do that to you?"

"No! He said we must pretend so it would look like he did that to me."

"Tell me, Fraulein du Pléssis-Miller, how did you pretend?"

"I scratched my own legs and between my thighs. He said he would never ever hurt me."

"How many times did you go to Herr Oberleutnant von Wangenheim?"

"Twice in each week. Later I went three times. I played the violin. He said I could use his Tononi. He accompanied me on the piano. He taught me to play chess."

It went very well for Célestine, Charles thought. She relaxed, knowing there were women officers, that she could draw strength and encouragement from them, that she need not fear anything. He glanced at Katrine who had a sheen of tears in her eyes. The others were not present but she spoke well of Herr Doktor Schiller and Herr Oberstleutnant Gaertner.

They took another two days to deliberate on the fate of Von Wangenheim. That officer had sat through the trial staring straight ahead, never looking at them or Célestine. He appeared to have a kind of resolve about him, as if he knew what the outcome would be. The others had to return to Buchenwald for the rest of the trials. Daisy Ginsberg was one of the key witnesses there. Charles would be present at those hearings while Katrine and Célestine prepared to return to France.

Before the end of Von Wangenheim's trial, she had asked to see him in his temporary cell before he returned to Buchenwald. There Katrine came face to face with the man who'd done his best to keep Célestine safe and unharmed. During the trial they'd heard how he'd beaten Götze almost to death after he shot Maestro Dobrinski and then got his hands on their daughter. Götze was, beside his sexual lusts, also trigger happy, shooting dead inmates as the whim took him. Dobrinski's death and running a prostitution ring in the camp was certainly more than enough to sentence him to life or even capital punishment.

Von Wangenheim was brought under guard to a small room that contained a desk-like table and two chairs. Charles waved for the two guards - American Military Police personnel - to wait outside. They hesitated first.

"Just wait outside the door, Corporal. The prisoner is harmless."

"Yes, sir!" the corporal said and saluted as they stepped outside and closed the door.

The moment they were out, Célestine rushed to von Wangenheim and hugged him. Katrine watched, her initial misgivings gone while she'd sat and listened to the testimonies.

"When Célestine - Zannah as I knew her - became ill last year and was brought to my quarters, I learned for the first time that she was not the daughter of Daisy Ginsberg as everyone believed."

"How did you find out?" Katrine asked, having regained her composure and strength.

"She called for her mother," Von Wangenheim said, smiling grimly. "I always wondered then what her mother looked like, whether her mother had died."

Then Célestine chimed in and said, "When I saw that bad man strike _Maman_ , I thought she was dead."

"I - I must thank you for protecting our daughter, Herr von Wangenheim. You would have been called a traitor to the Reich..."

"Yes, Madame Miller. I have been called that by Günther Götze. That was my fear, although the rest of the officers were always careful around me."

Katrine frowned, as did Charles. "Why?" they both chorused.

"He is a _baron_ , _Maman_! Baron Freiherr von Wangenheim!"

So Von Wangenheim was an aristocrat, a baron whose bearing made sense at last to Charles. Von Wangenheim looked at him, his blue eyes open, a humility in his gaze that Charles would not have associated with someone, especially the enemy, of high birth.

"My brother died not so long ago. Now that title is mine, but really in these circumstances, it is of little worth." Von Wangenheim turned to Katrine. "I am very glad that you have been reunited with your daughter, Madame Miller. I - if I may ask..." Von Wangenheim looked suddenly unsure. "If I may ask," he continued, a little bolder, "what happened to - to Zannah Ginsberg?"

Before Célestine or Katrine could answer, Charles turned to them. "Please, could you two wait outside for me? Célestine, say goodbye to Herr von Wangenheim..."

They watched as Célestine threw herself against the officer who had meant to much to her. It was a tearful goodbye for their daughter who clearly loved the German officer. Katrine waited until Célestine stepped out of Von Wangenheim's embrace. Then she shook the prisoner's hand. Charles could see that Katrine had forgiven him, though he was innocent of all the crimes committed.

"Thank you, once again, Herr von Wangenheim. There is much about you that is good."

When they left the room, Charles took a deep breath.

"Sit down, Von Wangenheim," he invited the former officer as he too, sat down on a chair. "I thought I'd answer your question myself. It was traumatic enough for Célestine to have witnessed it in the first place. Maybe Daisy said something?"

Von Wangenheim shook his head. "Not much beyond what you obviously know, Colonel Miller. I - want to marry Daisy Ginsberg if I am fortunate enough to serve only a sentence and not be executed. She needs also some closure, is it not so?"

"We have already told her that Zannah Ginsberg was buried in the Paris cemetery with Célestine's father. We are arranging to erect a new headstone with Zannah's name on."

Von Wangenheim closed his eyes, pressed his hand against them. He shook for a few seconds before he regained his composure.

"Thank you. She deserves that."

"When Célestine and her father were taken from their home, Joseph Blumenthal was already badly beaten up. He was disoriented when they stopped the truck in a forest clearing twenty miles outside Paris. Daisy had both children with her. In the truck the children exchanged their teddy bears, probably in a gesture of solace. When Joseph cried out for his daughter he was confused and pointed to Zannah. A German pulled Zannah from her mother's hand, thinking it was Célestine. They shot Joseph and Daisy's daughter."

Miller pulled out a small notebook from his right hand pocket. He scribbled something on the paper, then handed it to Von Wangenheim when he was finished.

"My address and contact numbers in Paris as well as the United States. Please, could you stay in touch? I would like to keep you updated on Célestine's progress."

"I would very much appreciate that, Colonel."

"Any other family?"

"Only my mother and my sister. They are at Munziger, our estate. My horses are there, including Konrad's "Kürfürst."

"The horse on which he competed at the Games?"

"That is so. Kürfürst is old now. Hopefully I will be able to compete one day. Too much has happened."

Charles nodded. "I think the judge will be lenient on you, Schiller and perhaps Gaertner. Götze is in trouble."

"I tried to warn him about an investigation by our own people at the camp. He would not lessen his...activities or even try to stop them. I am not sorry for him. You must understand, Colonel, that as young Jugend, we didn't have much choice but to be drawn into this...hell."

That was the closest von Wangenheim came to admitting the role which Adolf Hitler and his senior staff played in creating chaos across Europe. He nodded before rising. Von Wangenheim rose to his feet too. Charles clicked his heels and saluted, to which Von Wangenheim saluted in return, touching his forehead in a similar gesture.

Charles opened the door. "I'm done here," he told the guards, leaving the building and going in search of his wife and daughter.

"Well?" Katrine asked, "what did you two talk about?"

"Enough that in peace time I could call Von Wangenheim a friend."

Charles went on to explain that he spoke about Zannah's grave, that he'd like von Wangenheim to stay in contact with them. Katrine nodded in agreement. She felt they owed the German a lot for what he had meant to Célestine.

"Are we going home now, Papa?" Célestine asked as he drove them to the airfield where they were to board the Douglas C-54.

"You and Mama are going sweetie. I have to return to Buchenwald."

"I hate Buchenwald - "

"I understand, Célestine. But remember - "

"You must come home!"

"Little one," Katrine intervened, "Papa has many things to do still. We will wait his return, is that not so, Papa?"

"Yes. Now come here, let me hug you."

Célestine practically jumped in his arms, hugging him fiercely. Moments later Katrine stood in his arms.

"Please, be safe, _Charles_."

He hugged her closely to him. "Sweetheart, I'll think of you every moment I am on the battlefield."

He watched with sadness as they boarded the plane, remaining until the plane became a tiny dot in the distance, eventually meshing with the blue sky. Only then did he raise his hand in farewell. He was going to miss them, but he needed focus. He had to leave for Buchenwald to sit in on the rest of the trials. Most of the German soldiers and officers who'd been involved in theft of personal belongings of the inmates and who'd been involved in the prostitution rings had been identified.

 **Trials and retribution - May 1945**

By the time the 10th and 11th regiments of the 5th Infantry Division left Buchenwald under General Albert E. Brown heading southeast towards Czechoslovakia, Günther Götze was sentenced to death for crimes against humanity. Schiller, the doctor, was freed as evidence was provided that he had never engaged in the inhumane practice of conducting experiments on children. In fact, he often had ignored directives that would further injure an already suffering inmate and had made no distinction between treating soldiers of the Reich and sick inmates of Buchenwald. One heroic deed related by Daisy Ginsberg concerned the night he saved the child Célestine du Pléssis-Miller, formerly known as Zannah Ginsberg, who had been dying of typhus. Although more than five hundred inmates died of the disease that year, Herr Doktor Schiller had been instrumental in saving a hundred other sick inmates.

Johann Gaertner, who had taken over the camp after the notorious Karl-Otto Koch had been sentenced to death and executed by firing squad, was given a three year sentence. Evidence was showed that although he did not participate in any of the cruel practices in the camp, he had not done enough to lighten the burden of the inmates and enforced the cessation of those brutal deeds. Like many officers, Gaertner was a family man, a father of two young daughters. There was no reason to believe that he was unaware of what was happening to the children in Buchenwald. He had not touched a child although he was known to occasionally have taken a woman to his bed.

Regarding Helmut von Wangenheim, they had deliberated in extended sessions about his sentence. His deeds were known to most of the German officers and soldiers on trial. Von Wangenheim was under the protection of the German High Command was what many claimed as well as his counsel. He actively engaged in saving the children of Buchenwald. He had never indulged in any of the cruel, inhuman deeds of his fellow officers. Many times he had stepped in and prevented a child from being taken. Most notable was his saving of the child Célestine du Pléssis-Miller whom Götze had wanted to use as his sex toy. Von Wangenheim had stepped in and played a game of pretence. Later he organised a group of women who protected the children, especially girls. He had not wanted to know where the children were hidden in order that he could lawfully deny his ignorance as to their whereabouts. It had been discovered that there were several blocks where children were cared for by inmates, hidden from view, mostly, from the prying eyes of lustful soldiers.

Judge F. Winstone McAllister sentenced von Wangenheim to a year imprisonment. He argued that although Von Wangenheim had never touched any child, that he protected, taught and mentored a child in the camp and allowed that child to flourish in her musical endeavours, that he never indulged in the prostitution rings in the camp nor made himself guilty of stealing valuables belonging to the inmates, he was guilty by association.

Colonel Charles Miller, who sat in some of the trials, was glad that Von Wangenheim received only a light prison sentence. He had formed a liking for the quiet SS officer who had seemed to breathe a big sigh of relief. Charles sensed that the relief was not so much that his sentence was only a year, but that it was over.

 **Czechoslovakia May 8 1945, approaching Prague**

They'd left Buchenwald, with Erikson and Muldoon of the 9th Infantry Division remaining behind and General Albert E. Brown moving with the Red Diamonds. Charles travelled in the second jeep as was his custom, with Johannes Elsevier driving. Longman sat in front while he and Compton sat in the back, their rifles across their laps.

They drove towards Czechoslovakia, occasionally encountering Germans who fled east, their resistance easily snuffed out.

When the convoy stopped for a break in their 300 mile journey, they received radio communication from Allied High Command that the Russians were approaching the city of Berlin. Germany was about to surrender.

They were on the alert as they drove through tree lined dirt roads. The hot temperatures had dried the grounds from the winter rains so that they kicked up a lot of dust. Charles was certain that the enemy could see them from a mile away.

"This is our final battle, soldiers," Miller said, aware that his voice could travel over the din of the vehicles.

"Not to worry, Colonel," Compton said, half kissing the scope on his rifle, "we'll kill those sons-of-bitches. Heard what went on in the courtroom, sir. They deserve nothing better than the treatment they dealt the poor inmates."

"Got that right, Beanpole. My sister's got two little girls. When I think what they did to children, I'm about ready to drive eighteen wheelers all over their goddam bodies. Eighteen wheelers in Washington State. Gotta love those logging trucks," Elsevier said. "Yeah, that be my job after the war."

"Longman, you?" Compton asked.

"Back to the ranch in Kentucky, wide open spaces, horses, cattle. Yep, that's me!"

"Me, too! Want to get out of uniform and wear Levi Strauss jeans permanently!"

"Don't put on them floppy hats and dungarees. You be looking like them - "

"Don't say it!" Compton barked.

"The colonel's going to be permanently in uniform. Gotta say, he makes dress uniform look good, what with all those ribbon racks and a medal the president himself is going to wrap around his neck."

"Shut up, Compton. The colonel's sitting right here. Say, Colonel, sir," asked Elsevier, "are you going to live in France or America?"

He didn't want to tell them to keep out of his business when all he'd heard from them was their business, their little stories. Besides, he'd gotten used to their easy banter.

"Both, I guess. There's a lot of paperwork when you marry a French or other national."

"Really? Do you speak French, sir?" asked Elsevier. "I speak Dutch."

"Of course I can speak and converse in French. I can write passable French. I speak to my daughter in French, although she is quick to tell me she speaks English really well - "

"That be one of the things I'll do when we get home," Longman said.

"I'm gonna go to college," said Compton. "Want to be clever like - "

"Alert!" Miller shouted suddenly and raised his hand. They slowed down dramatically. "Listen..."

They heard rustling among the trees. Miller saw something, a glint in the sun.

"Down! Fire!"

The entire A company jumped off and began finding positions behind the trucks. Bullets flew past them. Compton and Miller slinked ahead, followed by Riley and Herring. In the distance, they could see sand bags and German helmets popping up.

"Watch out!" Miller shouted again as a German fired his grenade launcher. The grenade whistled in a high trajectory before landing close to them. Miller pulled Compton out of the way, Riley doing the same with Herring as the grenade exploded. They were just outside the fatality radius of eleven yards, sustaining minor burns. Everyone scurried into new positions, firing as they slinked closer across the dirt road.

Then Miller saw something about a hundred and fifty yards up the road. A flash - the muzzle or scope lens of a rifle. All too familiar. They had to move and move fast! He saw the smoke puff, knowing a shot was fired. Miller knew Compton was on his right and that bullet was heading for the young corporal.

"Compton! Watch out!"

Instinctively Miller lunged in front of Compton, firing at the same time. The next moment his body slammed against the corporal. Stung by a searing, stabbing pain, he rocked as a second and third bullet hit him.

"Colonel! Goddammit!" Compton yelled. In a haze of pain, Miller touched his chest, watching with glazed eyes as blood dripped from his fingers, only dimly aware that the firing had stopped or died down.

Overpowering fire shot through his whole body. He groaned aloud, thinking hazily that he'd never felt pain so severe. There were hands pulling him up and they were shouting his name. He heard dimly, from very far off, "Cappy, Cappy! C'mon! Don't go dyin' on us! Don't - go - dyin' - on - us!"

But the pain terrorised him and he felt suddenly tired, like an old man at the end of his life. Was that where he was heading? To a grave dying of old age? He wanted to lie down somewhere and sleep forever, just close his eyes and sleep.

 _I should let Katrine know I'm too tired to get up here..._

"Goddammit, Colonel! Open your goddam eyes and stay alive!"

But Colonel Charles Miller, his chest ablaze with fire, couldn't comply. He was too tired.

 _"Katrine"_ he managed to say her name.

Then he sank into the blessed abyss of oblivion.

Charles Anson Miller didn't know that in those very moments a ceasefire had been called. He didn't know that in that very moment Russian troops stormed Berlin and forced the Germans to surrender. He did not know that his men - those who had fought side by side with him since they landed at Utah Beach - wept openly as he was carried on a litter to the Red Cross ambulance.

He did not know that Compton and Longman rode with him in the ambulance, that Compton cried, "Goddammit, Colonel, I could never understand why you carried that goddam _Caesar's Gallic Wars_ everywhere with you. Goddammit, man!"

END CHAPTER TWENTY


	22. Chapter 22

This is the final chapter. After this the epilogue.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

 **UNITED STATES - The White House May 8 1946**

 **Reflections - Edward Aaron Miller**

The reception room of the East Wing of the White House was used primarily for events such as balls and dinners to honour visiting dignitaries, or sometimes at the behest of the incumbent president, a concert by his favourite jazz orchestra. No one would dispute the popularity of the Glenn Miller Orchestra who had entertained the troops in France and England and who had performed at the White House. Other events held in the reception room included the honouring of war veterans and medal of honour recipients.

The room was large and airy, with its entranceway covered by drapes suspended at waist height by ornate tiebacks, huge tassels of gold or bronze depending on the current theme of the soft furnishings of the room. A lavish gilt grand piano stood to one side, more towards the right side of the entrance to the room. Manufactured in 1938 by Steinway & Sons to celebrate their 300 000th piano, it was donated to the White House, and was now a permanent feature in the East Room.

Still, the main feature of this grand room was the three chandeliers, spectacular fixtures suspended from the ceiling of the room with a diameter of 6ft, each consisting of 6000 cut glass pieces and with a weight of 1200 pounds. It was an instant eye catcher, particularly when the chandeliers were lit.

As an historian, Edward Aaron Miller had done his homework just after he, as one of the family party, was invited to the White House to attend the medal ceremony. He'd spent some time studying the room where he now sat at the end of the second row so that he could stretch his callipered leg. Next to him sat Lucy who seemed equally overwhelmed by the opulence about her, but mostly, just by being at the heart of the American government with President Harry S. Truman himself in attendance. Next to Lucy sat Katrine and young Célestine, then his mother Althea and Isaac Wachinski.

It was a blessed day for the families of the recipients who at that moment were waiting in another location before they were ushered into the East Room.

Edward glanced down the row. He thought Katrine looked somewhat nervous, while his mother's hands couldn't stop shaking. Lucy was calm but inside, he knew, she was a little worried about Charles and the children. She had wanted to stay at the hotel to watch over three hyper active kids. But fortunately, families of the recipients, himself included, had made a request that the little ones be brought along - some were children of those recipients who had died on the battlefields - and be entertained by female staff in a separate room. Once or twice Lucy had wanted to get up and see what their kids were doing. Little Charlie at five and a half, Evan at four and Winonah at two were terrors when they were all together. More than once he reassured her that the kids were okay.

Sighing, he thought how quickly a year had passed since the end of hostilities in Europe, exactly one year ago. He had been following the events via radio and newsreels and had known by April of 1945 that the end of the war was very near, especially after the grand orchestrator of the Reich, the dictator Hitler, had killed himself a week before German High Command, or those left of that body, officially signed the contract of surrender. Personally he thought that _der Führer_ was a coward who dishonoured the very beliefs of the SS and who deserted the people of Germany. With his suicide, he left behind those who had followed him like slaves, only to relinquish their fatherland to the Allied Powers.

Up until that moment, they had had no idea where Charlie was on the field of battle in Europe. Edward had some sketchy information as the 5th Infantry Division was accompanied by a war correspondent. He knew they had liberated Buchenwald and Dachau, but where exactly Charlie was had remained a mystery to them.

Even now Charlie had not spoken much of the actual battles he'd been involved in. Edward could understand that. The trauma of witnessing all manner of brutality and injury had had a devastating effect on soldiers, including his brother. When Charles phoned their mother last year, Edward had been told only then that he'd been promoted several times and was now a brigadier-general. It was not as if they demanded he inform them of his every move. Yet, they greedily absorbed every morsel of news that came their way. Once, Katrine herself had phoned their mother to tell her that she had married Charles. That had come as a shock to them, though perhaps not to their mother.

"Mama?" Edward had been surprised when she'd phoned him with the news. "They only just met!"

"What can stop love that can be so all consuming?"

"After what, just two months?"

"I married your father after just two months, Edward. Charles was ready to fall in love again. You should have heard Katrine's voice. Their love - I think it is very mature. Charles has met the right person at last. Just goes to show Lucy and Charles were never really meant to be."

"Darn! And Charles didn't inform you himself?"

"Well, you know your brother. Never one for the big announcements. He'd win an Olympic medal again and not say a word about his achievement.

"He sounds happy, Mama."

"Yes, you could hear it in his voice. He didn't say much about Katrine except that he loved her. Now that is something that was hard for him to say. I am very happy for them, Edward. Try not to begrudge him that."

How had Mama noticed that he'd momentarily felt the old, old resentment towards his brother? Charles the Olympic medallist, Charles the coxswain of UW's rowing eights and West Point rowing eights for four years. Charles the newly minted one star Brigadier General. Charles the hero of Vidouville, St. Clair, Remagen, Buchenwald and Prague. It was inevitable. He couldn't help himself and Mama had picked up instinctively on his change of mood.

It was wrong of him, of course, to begrudge his brother anything. Yet resentment, however small now, was something that remained hidden in the furthest corner of his heart. Most times he forgot completely and then they were just simply brothers who could get into good fights and banter, and go rowing these days at Poughkeepsie. He loved Charles. Sometimes Lucy would tell him that it was natural and human to feel that way. Then Lucy would tell him in her gentle yet firm manner, "Besides, I chose you, Edward, because I love you. There is no doubt about that."

"I know, Mama," he'd said on a sigh. "Katrine is very beautiful, just like Charlie described her in his first letter to me. I am so happy that they found young Célestine. What an astounding miracle that was!"

"What a story they're going to tell!"

And what a story it was. Charles had been critically wounded during the final skirmish in Czechoslovakia. Katrine had been frantic when she telephoned them. They'd airlifted him to the American military hospital at the US base outside Paris. The war was over for Charles. He had recovered very quickly, telephoned them as well to speak of returning to America. It was a long year in which so many things had to be done. Katrine had phoned many times, sometimes just to tell them how bull-headed Charles was about his post-operative treatment and rehabilitation.

They accepted Katrine and Célestine, a wonderful, brilliant child into the family, embracing them with love. Célestine had become an instant hit with her adoptive little brother Evan who followed her around the house and wanted to play the violin like his big Sis. Evan had apparently asked her about the tattooed number on her arm. She'd told him that it was a reminder that she would never be lonely again. Evan's response had been priceless when he'd asked, "Can Papa make one for me so I can't be lonely?"

Now, sitting in the East Room of the White House, he rocked back to the present when the recipients marched in and took their seats in the front row. Everyone stood at attention when President Harry S. Truman entered with his entourage, the president taking his place behind the podium.

Edward experienced a burning sensation in his chest as he looked at his younger brother, now a one star brigadier general who looked resplendent in the dress uniform of his rank. Charles looked stern, he thought, as if he were afraid to smile. One moment, just a glance from Charles, and Edward smiled at him. All the rancour he'd ever felt at not being where Charles was, at not serving his country in battle, flew out of him at that moment. He felt a sting of tears as the group took their seats.

 _I am very, very proud of you, my brother._

"My fellow Americans..."

 **Reflections - Althea Miller-Wachinski**

Althea Miller-Wachinski could not contain her excitement. She was in the White House which in a way did not overawe her that much. It was witnessing her son being honoured by the president of the United States himself for bravery in battle that would be a fantastic story she'd be telling her friends and neighbours.

Charles deserved the honour. He deserved every happiness that the good Lord chose to bestow upon him. She had watched him grow from a belligerent child who defended his sickly older brother and got into more scrapes with the principal than many young students in his school. Not that Edward couldn't defend himself. When they were together they were a force to be reckoned with.

He had had so many disappointments, so much pain over the years, it was no wonder that he always looked like he was scowling. He had been unreachable, unapproachable, especially after his disappointment with Lucy. He'd gone away into the night and returned in the early hours of the morning never telling them where he had been. But she was a woman, a mother, and had sensed that pubs in the dark alleyways of downtown Detroit were his primary destination. Pubs and women, though she could swear that Charlie was not a drinker.

He was always going to be in the military where he could expend most of that dark, pent up energy and repressed anger. Other times during that terrible month in which he had been betrayed by his brother and Lucy, he'd spent on Lake St. Clair rowing in their long boat for hours until he returned home exhausted.

The war hardened him. It turned him into a person reluctant to share his experiences except when Katrine was the willing ear. While war made him somewhat cynical and tough, Katrine was the foil, his soft side. When she stood next to him, Althea's heart rejoiced for only then she could see the Charles who was happy, filled with joy, his eyes always shining and the dimples more and more visible when he smiled. Althea could not have loved a nicer person than Katrine. When her daughter-in-law phoned her that first time, she was ready to love her unconditionally, not only because she brought such changes in Charles, but for herself.

She loved Katrine and she loved Célestine, the little girl who had been thought dead for so long. So many things had happened since they arrived in America, ever since Charles had recovered from his injuries. Charles had formally adopted both Célestine and young Evan. Katrine and Célestine had both received citizenship and were now US citizens. Charlie himself could claim French citizenship because of his marriage to Katrine. They were good for Charles. His love for Katrine and especially for Célestine was so palpable. It brought joy into her heart that her son was happy at last.

She and Isaac had finally made the decision to uproot themselves from Detroit and relocate to New York state. That way they were near to Charlie, Katrine and the children, and could drive to Boston on weekends to visit Edward and Lucy. Isaac had sold his practice and set up a new one with a small group of doctors in New York City. The new arrangements worked well for all of them. She made new friends through the church group she joined and liked their new neighbours. She never felt like she missed Detroit and Isaac had been happy enough when she bought them a new queen-sized bed!

Now, looking about her, touching Célestine's hand in a comforting gesture, she smiled at the child.

"Are you nervous, Ma?" Célestine asked in perfect English, although Althea could understand and speak some French. She'd been quite good at school and loved to practice her skill with both child and mother.

"I am not."

"Your hands are shaking, Ma."

Althea smiled kindly at Célestine. "You are too sharp today, child. I am a little nervous. Don't tell anyone!"

"Sure, I won't."

Althea's eyebrow lifted. Very soon, she thought, Célestine would lose her French accent. She was picking up Americanisms quickly.

"Thank you."

Célestine touched her hand and couldn't suppress the little giggle. Althea could never stop looking at her granddaughter. The child had survived all manner of atrocities in the concentration camp, had witnessed inmates shot dead in front of her, had suffered extreme privation, been ill with typhus to the point of dying, all before she reached the age of nine. Sometimes, when they visited over a weekend, Célestine's eyes would darken. Then she simply drew the child to her and allowed her to rest her head against her bosom. Minutes later she'd be back to normal, walking with Evan in the little garden, or teaching him to play her violin.

It had shocked her when she heard Célestine play the violin. A real prodigy who was under the tutelage of an excellent teacher. But she'd been astounded by Célestine's prowess. Katrine had told them how Célestine had shown an early proclivity for the instrument when she had been just two years old.

They'd all been apprised of how Charles himself had discovered that Célestine was still alive. It was one of the few stories Charles shared willingly with them. He'd told them how Célestine had spontaneously taken to him even before he told her that he'd married her mother. When he and Célestine were together, they'd take turns in sharing that experience. Lucy had declared it was the most romantic tale on earth and it should be a book or movie or something. When she'd spoken those words, Charles's eyes had shone, especially when Célestine hugged him spontaneously. Charles had filled quite a few journals about his experiences. It might be worth something, some day!

Her last conversation with Charles - was it only last night? - had been very revealing. They were in the small reception room of the hotel they all stayed at.

"I see you like the shiraz wine," Althea said conversationally. Charles was not much of a drinker so it surprised her when he'd sat in the hotel's restaurant taking a sip from his glass.

"I have the best teacher in the world, Mama."

"Katrine taught you to drink?" she'd asked with a hint of humour in her voice. Charles had smiled. There was no offence taken.

"To understand and appreciate good wine. She's French. It was part of her upbringing. She owns a pretty restaurant in St. Clair, the _Coeur de Lion_."

"So what happens to the restaurant now that you are all in America?"

"Katrine and I with two of her closest friends are part owners in the restaurant. They are a married couple who run the establishment for us."

"You have a share in the place?"

Charles had nodded, then explained that Katrine wanted him to share in everything that she owned. As Evan's official guardian, Charlie had sold the used car dealership and set up a trust fund for the boy. All he kept was the Cadillac that had been paid for already. Winonah had been crazy about that car when Lansing had sold it to him.

Charles had looked stable, at peace with himself and the world. He looked loved, she thought with sudden clarity.

"You're going to be okay, son," Althea'd told him in a contemplative manner.

"I - I get nightmares, Mama."

"Son?"

"War is ugly and I have been inside it."

It wasn't necessary to hear the wretched details of those bad experiences. Charlie was clearly looking undone in a rare moment of vulnerability. Men who'd fought during the First World War returned home and many, very many looked shell shocked. Charlie seemed to handle the trauma well, but because he suppressed it, it manifested itself in his dreams.

"I am sorry to hear that, son." She had felt a tremendous sympathy for him. He was a leader of his troops and led by example. He had to keep everything together. They could not see him as weak.

Then Charles had given her one of his rare smiles. "Katrine is wonderful. And Célestine, she has nightmares too. I'm glad Katrine is there - "

"- to comfort you both. Charles..."

"Yes?"

"We can all see how much you love one another. It shines from you both. You cannot know how happy Isaac and I are for you. Katrine is a brilliant daughter-in-law and Célestine is the most adorable grandchild. Do you know she came into our room last night and played the Mozart lullaby for us?"

Charles smiled knowingly. "She does that, especially if someone close is not feeling well. You can expect some more of that in future!"

She'd studied him and thought how different he looked now with Katrine by his side, how powerful and deep their love was. It was a far cry from what he and Lucy had experienced. Theirs was the love of the young, the kind that merely prepared them for something deeper and more enduring but with different partners. Lucy had that now with Edward, just as Charles had that with Katrine.

Sitting in the White House East Room, Althea was brought to the present when the recipients entered through the main door. She gasped a little at how stunning her son looked with his array of ribbons above his left breast pocket, the star on his epaulettes. But Charles, she realised suddenly, looked tense, like he was suffering from a headache. She glanced at Katrine, gave a quick smile and watched as Charles seated himself directly in front of Katrine. Katrine gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before she sat back.

Then the president began to speak.

 **Refelctions - Brigadier Charles Anson Miller**

Such an important day like today and he had to have a flaming headache. He hadn't wanted to tell Katrine this morning because he'd already seen the flash of concern in her eyes. She'd frowned and let him be. He would tell her when it reached unmanageable levels. She did hug him gently, remaining in a close embrace for long seconds before she released him.

"It's not your old injuries," she'd said softly and he'd nodded.

Then they'd prepared to leave for the White House with Célestine and Evan in tow. Evan was extremely excited and he was certain Célestine was too, though at ten years old, she showed more reserve and control.

"You got your things, Célestine?" he'd asked.

"Yes, Dad!"

He'd raised an eyebrow. "Little Charlie calls Uncle Edward 'Dad'" she'd said by way of explanation.

"Don't lose your French, okay?"

"Never!"

Now he looked at the other recipients as they waited. Although there were ten honourees, three of them had died on the battlefield. None of the others looked nervous. One young lieutenant had an amputated arm while another private first class was a leg amputee. Charles didn't look like he'd sustained any external aggressive injuries, as if that was the benchmark for receiving the nation's highest award for bravery. But then it was not entirely about injuries.

Sighing, he sat down on a chair, thinking that he'd have preferred not to receive any commendations. It was a job he'd done, endeavouring to keep his companies safe, to guide his men in the best way possible, to strategise and plan ahead. He had the best men who were closest to him - Cruikshank and Linklater who'd died in battle, Davis, Longman, Compton and Riley. They were his elite snipers. Without them there'd most likely have been a lot more casualties.

No, his headache had just sprung from nowhere. He bent over, bracing his elbows on his knees and clutched his head.

He had almost died. Almost. Most other times he'd been injured - shot through the arm, hit on the head, grazed his forehead - he'd arrogantly believed those wounds to be so superficial he'd recover quickly and be back battling the enemy moments later. But that day...

That day hurried into his consciousness like a horse drawn chariot racing through the streets of Rome.

One moment he'd seen the glint in the distance, the little puff of smoke that indicated a shot was fired. He'd dived in front of Compton, instantly assessing where the bullet was going to hit. The next moment he was slammed back so hard against Compton that it left him winded. Another shot made him shudder. He'd been unaware of a third that had penetrated his upper arm.

He had the distinct impression that he was dying. He heard from a great distance, it seemed, the screaming voices of his men. After that he knew no more.

That day…

Something weighed him down, like a boulder had landed on his chest. He couldn't breathe, every intake scorching his ribcage, but despite the weight he'd felt less pain. Pain! His memory triggered that word, causing him to cry out. Opening his eyes became a mission, an exhaustive exercise of trying to lift his eyelids.

He heard voices - unfamiliar and familiar. Was he in hell? Did a thousand voices scream at him? Couldn't be, because he felt no heat of unrelenting fire in his chest. Slowly his breathing eased and with it, the awful pressure of the boulder on top of him.

"Finally."

Rheddam "Beanpole" Compton. Accident prone Compton. Crack shot Compton.

He managed at last to open his eyes. Faces bent over him so closely that their breath fanned his face. He stared at each one, then his gaze rested last on Compton. Compton looked worried, like there were tears in his eyes.

"You okay, son?"

"Goddammit, Colonel!" it burst from him. "You very nearly got killed by three goddam bullets. Your body slammed into mine while you managed to shoot that goddam German sniper who aimed at me! You were brought here critical, bleeding internally. You had a hole blasted through your goddam upper arm again. And you ask _me_ if I am goddam okay? Huh?"

Charles managed a tight smile, wincing as he tried to move. "I guess you are okay."

Then Riley, Longman and Hemmings chimed in, all speaking at once. It gave him a headache, a good kind of headache, he decided.

"The war is over, Colonel!" Longman said, "right on the day you were shot. Think about it, on the day the Germans surrendered on May 8, Colonel Charles Anson Miller of the 5th Armoured Infantry Division - the Red Diamonds - was the last American shot in Europe!"

"How long was I out?" he asked, frowning.

"Three days!" they chorused again.

"Three days!"

He had immediately worried about Katrine, about his mother and stepfather, his little boy, Célestine, Edward, little Charlie... Did they know?

"And then," Compton began, "you actually saved yourself, Colonel. If it weren't for that goddam _book_!"

The others smiled at Compton's constant commentary.

"C'mon, Beanpole, the Colonel saved your life. That was the fourth or fifth time. You've been on his savings list since Iceland!"

"Not to mention that grenade incident and being saved from the waters of the English channel!"

"Always did like being Cappy's irritation!"

"What book?" Charles managed to utter, groaning as he raised his hand and tried to grab Compton, bringing the soldier's face close to his own. "What book?"

"Why, you don't know? Caesar's Gallic Bloody Wars!"

He let go of Compton, out of breath and exhausted by the action. He was weak, he realised. Where was the medic?

"What did that book have to do with anything?"

Then Hemmings, mostly quiet, bent down and from a low bed table picked up the book and held it so that he could see.

A bullet was stuck near the left side of the book. Hemmings turned the book to show him the back. The point of the bullet stuck out on that side. Charles always carried the book in the top left pocket of his jacket...

"And then the second bullet pierced your lung. It's lodged against your spine."

Instinctively Charles moved his toes, relieved that there was feeling and movement. How the heck was a field hospital going to extricate a German bullet from his spine?

"The third bullet went clean through your left arm. Now you have two arm holes - ." Compton realised just what he said and began to laugh hysterically. Hemmings slapped his shoulder. Compton hiccoughed loudly. "Sorry, Colonel. Two arm holes. Boy, am I going to tell my grandchildren that one day!"

"My family..." Charles started lamely, trying not to laugh. Compton clearly saw the funny side of things as long as no one died. He remembered how the corporal - he was a private then - cried his heart out when Linklater died.

 _We all have our vulnerabilities. They make us entirely human._

"Scoot! All of you!" the medic shouted as he approached the bed.

The men retreated, very reluctantly, it seemed. Charles was dizzy. The doctor touched his arm and he opened his eyes again.

"Told them only two minutes," the doctor muttered under his breath as he took Charles's temperature. "You're heating up again, Colonel. That was some spectacular dive you did three days ago."

"My injuries, doc. What is wrong with me?"

"You'll live."

Charles tried to lift himself again. He cried out in pain, but he grabbed the medic's arm.

"You will tell me what I want to know, is that clear?"

"Fine. A bullet would have pierced your heart and killed you instantly had it not been for a book in your top pocket. _Caesar's Gallic Wars_ did enough to reduce the force of the projectile. You'll have a tiny scar just where your heart is. You were very, very lucky."

"The other?"

"Pierced your lung, though you can still breathe a little after we treated you here. Good thing your men brought you to us, practically racing with the ambulance here. Now, what we haven't been able to do here is refined X-ray work to pinpoint the exact location of the bullet, though it has possibly just touched a vertebra. You require more specialised surgery than what we are able to handle here, Colonel."

"It has to come out, doc. I'm not walking anywhere with a bullet in my chest."

"We have already radioed the US Military Hospital in Paris. You're going to be airlifted within the hour. Thank Sgt Holling, your radioman, for making contact and letting your wife know. They'll be waiting at the hospital."

The doctor's voice had trailed off, the sound travelling further and further away. He distilled only one word from the doctor's outline of his injuries.

"Katrine..." he murmured before losing consciousness again.

 **mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm**

When he opened his eyes he was disoriented at first. He blinked against the white light. In fact, everything was white and pristine. Even the white clad female moved about the room like a shadow. Could there be shadows that were colours other than dark and deep? An angel with unfurled wings stood by the window.

Angel? He wondered about that for she looked remarkably like...

"Oh, _Charles_!"

"Katrine..." His throat felt parched; he swallowed with difficulty, but her name tore hoarsely from him.

She rushed forward from the window, his angel whose voice sounded so welcome, so familiar. He felt her lips on his, a loving caress. He'd missed the caresses, he'd missed everything that was familiar, immediate, here and now. But where, what, was now?

"Where am I?" he asked when she broke the contact between them, but kept holding his hand in hers.

"You do not know?"

"I was in a field hospital. That's what I remember..."

" _Mon chéri,_ you are in Paris, in the American Military Hospital. You were airlifted from Germany."

He couldn't stop staring at her beloved face, the gentle smile whenever she addressed him, unless they had a little argument. He raised his hand, realising belatedly that a drip needle was attached to his forearm. But he wanted to touch her, to feel she was real, beautifully, blessedly real. He had dreamed so often about her and those dreams were good, safe dreams where there were no shadows, no fire and bomb blasts and grenades exploding, no young soldiers blown to pieces.

Charles wondered for a moment why he was so lucky to be alive. Did the gods choose him deliberately? Was he just their random choice to be kept alive so that he could share all his experiences with his family, with the world? Did they do it so that he could have a fulfilling life with a woman by his side forever, to complete the picture of family by giving him a young son and daughter? He thought how Evan came to him, an orphan whose parents died together in an accident, how Célestine came to him, a girl who witnessed too many tragedies for a child to remember.

Why did they choose him?

"In Paris? I am home?"

Katrine had given him a secretive little smile.

"Yes. You are not going to ask about your injuries, _Charles_? It seems to me you do not care about them! You nearly died!" Her eyes filled with tears. He felt like crying too.

"So many of my men died. I just wondered why I am alive."

"I believe the gods decided they are not finished with you yet, _mon amour_. Perhaps your task is greater than you believe it to be." Katrine paused, breathless after her passionate words. "Now," she began, more like the Resistance leader Katrine he used to know, "the bullet has been removed from your spine. It was touch and go, the doctors said. They also said that your strong constitution kept you alive."

"I thought it was _Caesar's Gallic Wars_."

"Well, that too!" she said with a relieved smile.

She stayed with him until the visiting hour was over, promising to bring Célestine the next afternoon.

Several days later, the doctor entered his ward.

"I am discharging you, Colonel. Madame Miller has assured us that she will take good care of you in your own home. We believe recovery will accelerate and then you will have a month of rehabilitation which again, she has assured us, she will arrange herself. You have a wonderful family, Colonel."

 **nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn**

He had wanted to go home. There had been so many things he and Katrine needed to discuss which they seemed to skirt around whenever she'd visited him in hospital. Meanwhile he'd written letters to the men in his company who had been closest to him. The war had ended, ironically, on the very day he had been injured. He wrote to Davis again, to Hemmings, Longman, Compton, especially to Elsevier who had been his driver for so many years. Always, during the writings he'd wondered whether he'd ever see them again.

"Thank you, Captain. I'm feeling much better. I can walk!" he added since they'd been particularly worried about damage to his spine.

"I understand, Colonel, that you're up for promotion to brigadier general, being the Red Diamond's one and only recipient of the Medal of Honour. Congratulations."

He'd nodded and before he could respond with yet another 'it was nothing, really', Katrine breezed into the ward.

"Has my husband behaved, Doctor?"

"We were about to chain him to the bed, Madame Miller, for he is in a mighty great hurry!"

The surgeon laughed then left the ward. There were many other more severely injured infantrymen and officers that needed his attention. Charles was glad Katrine arrived, glad that he could go home, to listen to Célestine play the Mozart Lullaby for him, to listen to Katrine when they lay together in bed. He loved to listen to the soothing cadences of her voice as she recounted the very legends he used to tell her back in St. Clair. He had given a great big sigh.

That first night back in their home, after Célestine had played for him and she'd retired for bed, he just sat back on the couch.

"I've placed Célestine in school again. She is catching up very fast."

"I am very glad. Daisy Ginsberg and the other women did a really fantastic job in teaching the children to keep them more or less up to date. It seems she hasn't lost much."

"Did you know that Maestro Sargozy has emigrated to America?" she'd asked.

Charles had frowned at her words. That had come as a shock to him, not that Sargozy left France, but that Célestine had lost the great tutor. Their recourse now was to enrol her in the Paris Conservatoire of Music. Katrine, when he'd studied her expression, had looked a little nervous. He dreaded what she was going to say. He had dreaded it for a long time. He remembered Robert Davis's words on the outskirts of St. Clair when he'd spoken about his first love, Brigitte.

 _My patriotic hubris was greater than my common sense. I could no more encourage her to leave her country than she could order me to stay in France."_

"Katrine? Is anything the matter?"

Katrine had taken a deep breath before she began speaking.

That was when Charles heard voices or a voice and he realised he was dwelling in the past.

"General... General..."

Charles awoke from his deep reverie. The room came into focus. He looked up in the concerned face of Lance Corporal Romano.

"You okay, General?" a young enlisted soldier - the one with the amputation - asked.

He realised he was still sitting with his elbows braced on his knees.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Thank you for your concern."

"You're welcome, General Miller. We will be haunted for a long time..."

"Yes...yes."

A moment later they were called to attention. They were ready. They began moving out of the room and made their way to the East Room reception hall. Once they stepped inside, Charles was stunned by the size of the audience. In the second row sat his family. The children he knew, were in another room in the East Wing, being cared for by the president's female staff. All except Célestine who sat next to her mother.

He sat down in the front row, with Katrine directly behind him. He dared not turn to look at her, but he felt her hand on his shoulder, the gentle squeeze so reassuring that his headache seemed to dissipate all of a sudden, as if she knew his slight unease. He breathed in deeply, comforted by Katrine's touch.

Then President Truman began his speech.

 **Reflections - Katrine Miller**

Katrine Du Plessis-Miller preferred to drop the _Du Plessis_ element of her last name these days. She liked the idea of simply being Katrine Miller. Charles had made good on his vow to adopt Célestine as well as Evan. They now had two children five and a half years apart. Evan was crazy about Célestine and had taken to calling her Celia. Their daughter had told him on more than one occasion that he'd be calling her by her full name, which she preferred, once he got older.

They'd all made their way to Washington DC, to the White House where Charles and other soldiers were to be honoured. Charles had fretted all morning about a lot of things. He'd had another nightmare last night and it had taken all her resolve to comfort him. This time there had been no Célestine, who'd slept in another hotel room with Evan, little Charlie, Winonah and Lucy. Charles had thrashed about wildly, nearly knocking his hand in her face.

Later, after a shower and shave, he worried about the small accidental cut on his jaw. Then after breakfast which was a riotous affair with three tables drawn together and the entire family sitting down around the elongated table, he'd been unsettled again. He'd been in a plain shirt and pants and had only begun to dress for the celebration when they'd returned to their room.

"You looked pinched, _Charles_. What is the matter? Do you remember the dream?"

His face creased as he looked at her. She could swear there was a headache brewing.

"Just a slight headache, honey. It will go away - "

"But, _Charles_! Let Pa Isaac take care of it! You know he takes his medical bag wherever he goes just in case of such emergencies. Please." She knew she'd sounded over concerned, but since his release from the hospital in France, he'd been like a bear with a sore head just after a nightmare.

"It will go away, Katrine. Don't worry so.

"But - "

"Please, let it be, okay?"

"Fine!" she'd said and practically stomped her foot.

"Are you angry, honey?"

She'd smiled and pecked him on the cheek. His mood had seemed to lift.

"You know how I worry, _mon amour_."

"I know. Now, will you knot my tie? You do it so perfectly."

So she'd knotted his tie, made sure there was not a thread out of place and smoothed down his jacket. She marvelled as always at the array of accolades pinned to his uniform. Because he was still considered ground forces, he'd retained the rhombus-shaped red diamond on his left upper sleeve. Now, above the ribbon rack gleamed a pin with the Armed Forces logo. The shoulder straps with the single star denoted his rank.

She'd smiled up at him when she remembered the day he received his new promotion in France at the American Embassy. She had been given the honour of helping to pin the new strap to his shoulder. He had been inordinately proud that day, barely a month after he'd been discharged from the Military hospital. By then , he knew about her momentous decision.

"Thank you," he'd said earlier this morning after she'd knotted his tie. "And honey..."

"What is it, _Charles_?" she'd asked.

"Thank you again for the big decision you made last year. I am so honoured."

She'd smiled gently because he looked so patently happy despite the headache. Now, sitting between Ma Althea and Célestine, she glanced quickly at her daughter. Célestine didn't seem to be overawed by the big occasion or being in the East Wing of the White House with its magnificent chandeliers. Once, she'd visited the __Château__ _de_ _ _Versailles__ and stood in the Hall of Mirrors, astonished by the grandeur of 17th century architecture. Here in the East Room was a taste of that opulence. The great chandeliers, she noted, seemed to drag down the ceiling battens. Sometime soon, they'd have to take the chandeliers down and rebuild the entire room.

But that was just her opinion. Her thoughts strayed again to Charles' words of this morning. She experienced once more a warmth in her bosom, loved Charles all over again and didn't regret that she married him. She'd fallen deeply in love with him, so much so that she'd wondered many times how much she had really loved Joseph. She did love Joseph, but accepting that he'd died had laid the foundation for a new, exciting, very powerful kind of love. For a moment she closed her eyes and thanked God that Charles had come into her life.

That night after Charles had been discharged from hospital and Célestine had gone to bed, she'd sat next to him on the couch. She'd experienced a momentary dread that he'd be unhappy, whenher own feelings had been so new, so thrilling. She'd asked him whether he knew that Maestro Sargozy had emigrated to America. Then she'd paused and Charles had sensed the hesitation, causing a strange, fearful look in his eyes.

"Katrine...?"

She'd given a little sob, summoned the courage and never took her eyes off him as she spoke.

"When I was living in St. Clair and fighting for the freedom of my country, I always imagined that there was not a single person who could love France more than Katrine du Plessis-Blumenthal. I bled for France, you know, for I represented her people who never gave up on her desire to be free. We were sold out by my government, by a leader who had once been a national war hero. And so I refused to give up my country, my flag, my national symbols, just like Brigitte and Berry and Solange and Lamine - for we were all patriots. Lamine adopted France as his own for he had no family living in Senegal. My country became his. We had the courage, the determination and fierce devotion to fight for what belonged to us - our land, our resources, our wines, our art works, our beautiful chateaux, to preserve our national pride."

While she'd spoken,Charles had not moved; instead he'd kept his gaze on her. It was not as if she'd shared those sentiments with him before, but at that moment she had spoken passionately about her country.

"Joseph and I worked for the Resistance here in Paris and after he died, I did not stop,as you know."

"And then what, Katrine?" Charles had asked with eyes in which a certain hope had suddenly soared to the surface.

"Then I met you. You were the other side of me, so truly American, saving another country as you fought for your own. I sensed in you the same dedication, the same love and honour, the same national pride. Always, the thought lay inside of me that we had to confront our dualism one day. We never addressed it, did we, Charles? We were always so afraid to explore those very important issues. You struggled too with those concerns, I know!

"When you were fighting on the battlefield, being injured, I feared constantly for your safety, for your life. And you, Charles, you always pretended as if those injuries were nothing, nothing at all! But do you know how I dreaded a knock on my door that would tell me you were lying somewhere, critically injured, how I wanted to be there, with you, to comfort you and to will you in staying alive? Do you?"

"I am so sorry, Katrine, that my actions have saddened you. I always, always thought of you. This...latest injury... When I was shot, I tried to save the life of one of my best men. Compton was the most accident prone soldier but also one of the best snipers in the army. I felt my body slamming against him, to push him out of the way. My only thought then was of you. I remember now how I wanted you to be there to take my hand, how I wanted to tell you once again that I love you. I thought I was dying, that knowing you loved me would make my journey easier..."

"And that was when I decided - "

A sudden hope sprung up in Charles's eyes.

 _ _"Qu'as-tu décidé, mon amour?"__

"I want to be wherever you will be, Charles. I know how you dream of going back to America and live there, work there, raise your children there. I have known you almost a year now, yet I cannot imagine a single day without you. If I am not with you, I will wither. I love France, but I love you perhaps more. The reason I fought so hard for my country is no longer there. I want to walk beside you,Charles, be the perfect other side of you and for you. _Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia_ _,_ _Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia, Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia..._ Where you are Gaius, there is Gaia."

"Katrine! My love!" Charles had cried out, for he understood Latin, understood her vow. He who read Latin texts like she read French and English.

Charles had hauled her into his embrace, unconcerned about his body that was still healing and for a long while he'd held her close to him. They'd talked long into the night, making arrangements. They laughed, they wept, they kissed.

So Charles had adopted Célestine by French law. He had applied for French citizenship, making him a dual citizen. They'd gone to the embassy and filed formal applications for her and Célestine's immigration to the United States. She would receive special dispensation to work in America. They'd travelled to St. Clair to tell their friends the good news, to ensure once again their partnership with Lamine and Solange. The restaurant would remain their source of income.

On a cold November day, after all their arrangements and legal matters had been completed, Katrine, Charles and Célestine had moved into their new home on the outskirts of New York City. They were happy, although much had to be done still. Evan was with them, legally their son. A trust fund had been set up for him after the used car dealership had been sold. Célestine auditioned successfully at the Juilliard School of Music and lo and behold, one of her tutors was going to be Maestro Sargozy.

She had formally met the whole family, with Ma Althea and Isaac living nearby, and Edward, Lucy and the children in Boston. They had a housekeeper, a young woman who needed a job. Her name was Amelia and she loved Evan and Célestine, took care of little Charlie and Winonah when they visited. Life was good, Katrine decided. Now, all she longed for was -

"Mom, look!" Célestine's voice broke through her reverie. "They are here!" she whispered.

Instantly on the alert, a hush fell over the audience when the recipients entered the hall and quietly moved towards the seats in the front row. Katrine could see Charles was still nursing his headache. His face looked a little sallow, the drawn features so unlike the way she knew him. When he sat down directly in front of her, she spontaneously leaned forward and touched his shoulder, squeezing it gently. She felt his sigh of relief. Then just as spontaneously Charles covered her hand. She felt a prick of tears.

This was Charles Anson Miller, her reluctant hero, the man who so often played down his achievements. Yet through their touch, she also sensed the magnitude of the occasion, that he accepted it as probably the proudest moment of his life.

Then President Harry Truman, who had walked in with his aides, stood on the dais, resting his hands on its sides. He looked at the audience, then glanced at the soldiers in the first row. Then he began to speak.

 **Presidential address - President Harry S. Truman**

"My fellow Americans

"Today is one of the most pleasant things I have had to do as President of this country. This is indeed a very special occasion. We are here to pay tribute to an extraordinary group of young men who have distinguished themselves as heroes. We ask ourselves 'what is a hero'? Well, in my book that is someone who performs a very special act of courage that goes above and beyond the call of duty. He doesn't have super powers but an instinct to protect and save a life.

"A year ago to the day, Germany surrendered to the Allied forces and in September last year Japan surrendered. The world had been plunged in a conflict such as we have not experienced in modern times. To realise a dream of a herrenvolk, a race supposedly far above every other, as if men were not born equal, a dictator seduced his nation into believing that his Reich, such as Charlemagne's Holy Roman Empire, could last a thousand years.

"Victory against the enemy came with extreme hardship, with loss, with sacrifice. I would like to think that we have seen the end of all wars, such as men and women thought of after the Great War. But, ladies and gentlemen, as long as there are men dwelling this earth who dream of domination and subjugation, who dream of enforcing their ideologies on others, who dream of victory against a brother, who dream of annexing a people without any manner of forethought but the simple and selfish need to conquer, we will have conflict.

"And to counter such conflict our men and women must stand ready to take up arms, especially if such engagement tears at the very fabric of our own existence, our lands, and our social and economic structures.

"We were drawn into this war when we encountered an unprovoked attack on our fleet. That, ladies and gentlemen, was not to be endured, for then we had to overcome the enemy who dared to strike at us. The enemy had indeed awakened a sleeping giant, but at what cost?

"The United States of America have lost in this war altogether 419 000 soldiers in battle, the United Kingdom 450 000; France has suffered casualties of 210 000 soldiers in arms and a further 390 000 civilians who died due to casualties of war and crimes against humanity. This figure, ladies and gentlemen, does not include soldiers who are, at this point in time, still missing in action.

"Our soldiers went out there to fight against the might of the German war machine. They died, they were injured, they were imprisoned. They have conducted themselves with great distinction and valour. They were soldiers who were loyal to their country and loyal to their command and command structures. They formed friendships where they perhaps wondered, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Let me tell you about them. They are sitting right here, in the front row. They are men of valour, men of daring, men who put their lives on the line in order to protect one of their own. There were hundreds, nay, thousands of soldiers who performed acts of courage. Whether it was a simple action of setting up a stack of sand bags while under enemy fire, or decoding and relaying messages intercepted from German High Command, that was what defined heroism. But there are occasions when soldiers and officers commit acts of bravery that stand out, that will be remembered forever for the singular manner in which they have saved the lives of others.

"We are here to honour extraordinary acts of heroism in battle. Some of our recipients are not present today to receive the nation's highest honour, for they have made the ultimate sacrifice. In saving the life of a comrade, they lost their own lives. Such fearlessness can only ever be commended. It was not that they didn't care about their lives, but in the midst of a skirmish, their only instinct was to go in and protect, for in that second, one must believe, they could not see or accept that another soldier might die needlessly.

"The Congressional Medal of Honour is not limited by creed or race or rank or military component, ladies and gentlemen. Our recipients range from young enlisted soldiers and sailors to senior officers of the United States Armed Forces. This is a proud moment for them, but prouder still are we as Americans to have such great heroes in our midst, who will be remembered as role models of the future.

"Now, we shall proceed with the pleasant task of honouring our recipients. We begin with the enlisted soldiers..."

So each soldier got up, saluted stiffly and stepped forward, then turned to the audience. Behind him against the wall hung the flag of the United States, crossed with the flag of the US army. The president outlined briefly the achievement of each recipient as well as his unit name and area. Those who had died in battle were represented by a parent or wife who received the medal. Each medal had a light blue ribbon with the medal depicting the particular component, such as the air force or navy or army.

The proudest moment came when President Truman himself hung the medal around the neck of the soldier. Then the soldier saluted again before taking his seat.

When it came to Charles's turn, the flag of the US army was replaced by a red flag with a single star in the middle, indicating that it was the flag of a brigadier general of the army.

"We call Brigadier General Charles Anson Miller..."

There was applause from the audience as Charles rose to his feet and saluted the president before taking his place in front.

"Brigadier General Miller," the president began, "is an officer of the 5th Armoured Infantry Division called the Red Diamonds. He led the A-company of the 10th regiment where he has distinguished himself above and beyond the call of duty. When they landed at Utah Beach back in July 1944, one of his infantrymen was in danger of drowning. I understand that this particular infantryman was in the habit of being accident prone. General Miller swam back into the raging waters of the English Channel and rescued the soldier.

"I also understand that the same soldier had jammed the pin of a hand grenade in Iceland on maneuvers, in which Captain Miller as he was known by his rank at the time managed to literally defuse the situation. Had the grenade exploded, everyone within five yards of the stricken soldier would have been seriously injured or dead. Apparently they called him a cat with nine lives and Brig. Gen. Miller used up quite a few on this soldier who also happened to be one of America's finest snipers.

"During the Battle of Vidouville, Brigadier General Miller pulled a critically injured soldier out of the line of fire and stayed with the dying soldier with a disregard for his own life. His example has touched many of the men under his command."

While the president spoke, Katrine studied her husband. He looked almost impassive, as if he were afraid to acknowledge that he was a hero. But she knew him, just as his mother and his brother knew him. That was the stuff Charles was made of. He was born to lead, born to be a hero. Sometimes he lost patience with the men under his command, but most of the time, she knew, Charles was fair and just and understood when a soldier was stressed and distressed about the carnage he witnessed. He didn't slap a soldier out of impatience for the young man's obvious trauma, like she'd heard General George Patton had done. While Patton was one of Charles's greatest heroes, Charles was by no means unjust to his men. But he did expect as much from them as he expected from himself. She smiled when she caught his glance. His eyes shone and her heart surged with joy.

"Brigadier General Miller," President Truman continued, "liberated the French town of St. Clair. We know that he is a crack sniper and with his small team, they wreaked havoc amongst the Germans in the town. We understand that Brigadier General Miller met his future wife there..."

There was a chuckle from many people in the audience. Katrine felt a little embarrassed as they cast their eyes in her direction. But Lucy, who sat on her right, gripped her hand and smiled gently, the gesture comforting. Her eyes said, "Don't worry, it's only today!"

"Soldiers have died in his arms, his words of comfort their solace in their final resting places. We think especially of one such incident in which a soldier was gravely injured. Brigadier General Miller stayed with the dying infantryman, a Private First Class who had been in his company since 1940.

"Your body is pockmarked!" was what General George S. Patton said of Brigadier General Miller, when he commented on the fact that he had been shot so many times and survived. Corporal Compton of his regiment remarked that Brigadier General Miller had arm holes, since he'd suffered bullet wounds in both arms during different engagements.

"I have here a letter sent me by Admiral Owen McKenzie Davis whose son, Lieutenant Robert Davis, was rescued by General Miller at Remagen. He wished to thank this young man for saving his son's life.

"But most of all, ladies and gentlemen, Brigadier General Miller is deserving of the Medal of Honour for his leadership over the years. It was under his command that Buchenwald concentration camp was liberated. His command to his men was that they treat the German prisoners of war according to the protocols of the Geneva Convention. Surely it is this quality that distinguished him from others. He has led his men with great distinction, discipline, a moral order, strength and loyalty to the Red Diamonds. He is indeed an inspirational leader, one in whom all of us sitting here can be justly proud. Such men in command often put aside their own needs to ensure that the needs of their men are met first. They appear larger than life, but are approachable.

"By a miracle of God, Brigadier General Miller also discovered a child, long believed dead, still alive, a child who had survived the unbelievably harsh conditions of Buchenwald. That child, ladies and gentlemen, is sitting right here in the audience. She happens to be his daughter. He assures me he does not think of her as a stepchild, but as his own whom he has formally adopted. Such is the stuff great films are made of!

"During the final skirmish of the Red Diamonds, in fact exactly one year ago, Brigadier General Miller, who had already been nominated for the Medal of Honour, was severely injured when he yet again saved the life of a fellow soldier. Once again, it was the same soldier who had already been saved three or four times by his commander. This time Brigadier General Miller spotted the enemy sniper from a great distance and instinctively dived in front of the soldier, collecting three bullet wounds. The one that would surely have killed Brigadier General Miller was the bullet that was lodged in the book he always carried in his top left pocket. While many soldiers carried a little Bible in their pockets, this man went everywhere with a copy of _Caesar's Gallic Wars._ "

Katrine could see the faint bulge created by the book in Charles's pocket. She'd wanted him to remove it. His face had hardened a little before he muttered, "I go nowhere without _Caesar's Gallic Wars_ and that's that!"

There was a hush when an aide appeared, dressed in the regimentals of the 5th Infantry Division's Honour Guard with a gilt tray. Truman lifted the medal with its light blue ribbon and held it aloft.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is an honour to bestow on Brigadier General Charles Anson Miller the Congressional Medal of Honour, for meritorious service above and beyond the call of duty. The United States of America is proud of its son..."

Katrine gave a little sob and a single tear rolled down her cheek as she watched her husband. Charles smiled as he waited for the president to hang the medal round his neck. She thought of the day she met Charles, so hard and forceful and committed. Even then she'd sensed his great leadership, that he seemed born to it. She'd known then that however much she prided herself as the commander of a resistance cell, Charles spectacularly rose above all her expectations of the qualities that made a leader.

Her tears could not stop flowing. She had fallen in love with Charles, had known that day that her destiny would be inextricably woven with his, that no amount of resistance would be able to withstand the force of nature her husband was. He was destined for greatness, had risen through the ranks purely because of his abilities and his readiness to lead, to delegate, to be as good as his men were. He was never a shirker of duties, that was what she knew about him. They'd had arguments but the knowledge that they could step back and accept the other's opinions and desires was always going to be a part of their union.

She wiped at the moistness on her cheek. Célestine gave her hand a gentle squeeze before she got up quietly from her seat and made her way to the left side of the room.

When Charles looked at her, Katrine smiled through her tears. He was so attractive in dress uniform, now with the medal adorning his neck. His mother had packed all his medals, ribbons, University of Washington pennants into a box when they moved from Detroit to New York. He'd once described and explained every medal and ribbon to her.

Katrine glanced at her mother-in-law and saw that she too had tears in her eyes.

Althea Miller wept quietly as she watched her son. She had never been more proud of him than at this moment. Charlie had been angry since his school days, always fighting injustice. She remembered days when their father had gone to the school and walloped Charlie because he invariably got into fights with other kids. Those days he was more the leader than Edward who was a year older. Charlie was always protecting his heritage, the fact that both her sons looked so much different from others, with their tanned skin, their dark eyes and raven black hair, their native American looks. He'd used his little fists liberally in those days. Their father had very quickly managed Charlie's early rage by teaching the boys to swim, to dive, to row. He'd have them up at five in the morning down by the lake and drill them no matter what the weather was like. In many ways, he acted like the elder son. More often than not, Edward had joined in the fight whenever he'd seen his brother outnumbered. She had never boasted when they defended themselves. Later the rest of the kids had left them alone, especially after Edward became so ill.

When Edward contracted polio, Charlie had been the first to defend his brother who had been bedridden a long time before he could become mobile again. Children were often unintentionally unkind, but Charlie had never used that to back off from a good fight. The brothers were fierce allies. She loved them both so much.

Watching him being honoured made her heart burn with affection and love for him. He deserved every accolade. She'd always thought Charlie was born to lead. There was an inner strength that exuded from him, that made people single him out for those skills that came so naturally to him. Now the medal that adorned his neck was not only for saving the lives of others, but for his leadership that his superiors recognised was defining in the way he led his men.

She reached to touch Katrine's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She loved Katrine as much as she loved Lucy. Katrine gave stability to Charles's life, her kind nature absorbing the traumas he'd experienced, her love so clear for all to see.

" _Tu as bien fait, mon enfant_ ," she whispered to Katrine.

"And now," President Truman said in conclusion to the proceedings, "a young lady is going to perform for us. She is only ten years old but already an accomplished violinist. She will be accompanied on the piano by David Green..."

David Green was seated at the Steinway grand piano, with Célestine standing next to the beautiful instrument, ready to play. The audience listened with rapt attention to Célestine as she launched into Massenet's "Meditation". She played with such confidence, every note escaping from the strings a caress, a pained memory of a sad time in her life, a tribute to those soldiers who had given their lives, a thank you to those who had protected their country.

Charles felt inordinately proud of her as he knew Katrine and everyone in the family also felt. His headache had subsided to the point that he hardly felt anything.

When Célestine finished, she remained standing with the bow still poised mid-air. Spontaneous applause broke out among the audience with the president moving quickly to her to shake her hand. Célestine smiled shyly as she mouthed her 'thank you'.

 **nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn**

It was over. People were milling about outside on the lawn of the White House, some already moving towards the gate to leave for their respective homes. Some, Charlie knew, had travelled great distances. One of the recipients lived in Seattle, another was from Wyoming. It was indeed a joyous occasion, though he wished he was already back home with his family. The children were reunited with their families, with Evan excitedly telling Katrine something about the lovely ladies who looked after them and told them stories.

Suddenly Edward stood in front of him. Charles gave an inward sigh, fearing he'd see and hear again the cynicism in his brother's eyes and voice. He'd lived with it since their high school days. But Edward's face was open, his admiration unblemished when he shook Charles's hand.

"Congratulations, Charlie. You deserved every accolade you received this morning. I am very, very proud of you!"

Charles smiled with relief. "Thank you, Edward. We fought some hard battles, lost a few good men, but we persevered. I couldn't have done it without the group of young soldiers who fought side by side with me. I often think of them, you know."

"They wrote you, I presume."

"Yes, I got letters from almost all of them. Rheddam Compton - they called him 'Beanpole' because of his height - wrote me to say he's back on their farm, that his father had passed on early this year. He has taken over the reins of their ranch. He told me his experience working with me gave him discipline and focus. He was a crack shot, one of my finest snipers - "

"You have done well, Charles. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if - if I didn't contract polio."

"Let me tell you about that, my brother. You might have spent your life in the field and would never have married Lucy. These things, you know, come from a Higher Power who decides the path of our lives. I might never have met and married Katrine."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Putting things in perspective."

Charles spontaneously moved to pull his brother in a tight hug. When they pulled apart, they both had tears in their eyes.

"Dad was always right," Charles said. "He taught us never to give up, that there are no boundaries in whatever we try to achieve. You are living proof of that, Edward. If it hadn't been for him with his no nonsense attitude to life, who knows?"

"You're right. I might have languished in hospitals and wheelchairs. Now I get about comfortably, and my students like me! They act as if I didn't have a disability. _You_ never thought of me with a disability. I am blessed."

"I am glad. Look, I see Lucy waiting for you and Katrine waiting for me. Take care, big brother!"

Charles gazed at the two women standing about ten yards away from them. His regard softened as he saw the love in Katrine's eyes for her husband. When he waved with his hand, Katrine smiled while Edward walked to meet his wife.

Katrine's steps were measured, slow, yet full of assurance. His heart burned fiercely as she approached him. Her hair glinted burnished bronze in the midday sun. She wore a mustard coloured dress, the shoulder pads giving the dress extra lift, extra confidence. A belt gathered the dress at her tiny waist. He'd seen Ingrid Bergman walk like that in a movie, Bette Davis float with haughty elegance down a curved stairway. Katrine should be an actress! He was getting breathless again, fearing he might expire or suffer palpitations because his heart hammered against his ribs in uncommonly loud thuds.

The lawns of the White House seemed suddenly to be cast in gentle shade, the people moving away from them, as if by mutual consent they allowed the couple to be alone, to let the sun bathe them in a spotlight.

They were not aware of the crowd around them as Katrine stopped in front of him. Charles thought she had never looked more beautiful. He loved her. He knew in that moment Katrine would be his present and his future, that their destiny would forever by linked.

Katrine's gaze was unwavering as she walked up to her husband. She'd waited patiently until Charles had finished talking to Edward and other dignitaries. He'd been feted by them all - the president, by his fellow officers, by the families of the other recipients. The president had seemed very taken by him and she'd known that Charles had come to the presentation with the best credentials in military science.

This morning he'd had a headache that seemed to have dissipated. Now his face looked relaxed, the strained look gone. But it was his bearing, the way his dress uniform fit on his body, the medal round his neck and the ribbon rack which lent an aura of almost unapproachability which in itself was attractive. There was a fierce, burning pride inside her that made her love him even more. Only now she understood a little why the French girls fell for the German soldiers, especially the officers. The girls were more attracted by their stern looks and uniforms, for they presented an air of authority that was as alluring as it was deceptive.

Charles was, by the very virtue of his association with the United States military, always going to be in uniform. Yet, she'd come to know the man, hard, unflinching, disciplined, focused but also just and caring.

She heard Lucy's voice again, "Go to him, Katrine. We can see he misses you. Don't worry about the kids..."

Katrine gazed deeply into her husband's eyes. He graced her with a little half smile that deepened his dimples. Yet he stood, hands at his side, at attention as if he were facing President Truman. Katrine raised her hand and caressed his cheek.

"Two years ago," she said, speaking in her native French, "I didn't know your name. Now my dear, beloved Charles, I cannot imagine a day without you."

"And I knew your name," he responded in French, "even before I met you, my love. Then I wondered what little spitfire dared to tell me that she was in charge?"

Charles opened his arms and Katrine stepped into his embrace, a quiet, unhurried movement. He held her loosely, his hands encircling her waist. She could gaze up at him, her palms against his chest. Charles felt so strong, so rugged, a rock against which she could lean.

"My life," he continued, "became meaningful when you stomped with your tiny feet all over my heart. Everything I have done or achieved in the past, I always assumed held little relevance for me. I dismissed my own accomplishments, thought little of how those things I had done could impact on others, that I could make a difference in someone's life. I never really thought of that.

"Yet, to have heard the president speak, it seemed that it has and I feel proud that I could mean something to someone. You taught me about the grace of giving, or giving with grace, I should say, and of receiving the 'thank yous' that came my way and to receive that too with grace and not play it down, not knowing that being dismissive could hurt that person.

"You showed me that whatever goes wrong in our lives or when we are struck with pain and heartache, a Higher Power has not forsaken me. Once you told me that as a scientist you don't adhere to religion, that your beliefs are rooted in absolutes. I tell you now, my love, that you have no idea what you mean to me, what you have meant to others; the things you do to make someone feel safe is a gift surely given to you by God.

"I never thought that after Lucy left me, I'd be happy again, that I would meet and fall in love with someone who understood me. I will remember forever that day I drove around Paris, disoriented, trying to find your home, how you comforted me in your soft, beautiful voice, telling me the legend of my people. You cannot know in those moments how desperately I loved you."

It was a long speech and Charles was out of breath at the end of it. Katrine stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

" _Charles_ ," she began, "when I married Joseph Blumenthal, I was very young and in love. He was Jewish and I - well, let's say I was not religious or church bound. We had a good life, almost as if we were playing at being married. But I loved him. We made a beautiful child together. We each had our own work and the one thing we did together was serve in the Resistance.

"Joseph was a kind man, one who never turned away any person regardless of race or creed, seeking always to help. If you say that I am good and kind and just, it is because Joseph's example inspired me. I cannot say what would have happened had Joseph still been alive and I had met you. I want to believe fervently that the Higher Hand you spoke of in all his wisdom decreed that you and I meet, that Joseph and his subsequent death prepared me for a love that would transcend everything I experienced before. I can never begrudge what I had before, _Charles_.

"When you met me, you met the mature Katrine, one who had gone through very deep waters, one who had begun to believe that she was never destined to be happy, to experience joy again. I feel privileged that I could have a second chance at life and love, to live again, that I could be your anchor and you my anchor. You found my daughter whom you now consider yours too, just as we consider little Evan to be our son.

"I love you, Brigadier General Charles Anson Miller."

Katrine rose on tiptoe and kissed her husband again. Only then did Charles hug her tightly, desperately to him, his mouth against her hair. When he held her away from him, his eyes were moist with unshed tears.

"Let's go home, Katrine..."

They stepped out of the spotlight and the grounds of the White House came into view again. They saw people still milling about. A little distance away from them, they saw his mother and Isaac who was holding Evan's hand. Célestine stood next to his mother Althea who carried Célestine's violin case. When the children saw them, they rushed to their parents.

"Mommeee! Daddy! Evan shouted as he ran towards them. Célestine was a little more sedate, moving at a moderate pace.

"Come here, children," Charles said.

"You were very good on the violin today," Charles said to Célestine. "Are you ready for Juilliard?"

"Oh, yes, Daddy. I can't wait to start!"

"And me, Daddy! I'm going to kindergarten!"

Katrine looked at Charles while she ran her fingers through Evan's pitch black hair. He looked so like both Charles and Edward that people were often surprised that Evan was not his son. Célestine's eyes shone. The shadows were gone, although Katrine knew that the memories and trauma of Buchenwald would surface again and again. They were ready to guide their daughter, to be there when she had nightmares. But right now, Célestine appeared unaware of the tattooed number on the inside of her left forearm.

"Papa..."

"Yes, honey?" Charles knew when Célestine slipped into "papa" mode, there was a request coming.

"You promised us you'd teach us to row. When?"

"As soon as we visit Poughkeepsie near West Point, honey. I will be there most days of the week."

"Oh, goodie! And little Charlie too?"

"Bring along Winonah as well if you like. We're setting a new tradition here."

Katrine, only too happy that Célestine was so open and sparkling, nodded.

"Come, we're going home now."

As they walked through the gates of the White House Garden, Charlie hugged Katrine to him.

" _Charles_..." Katrine whispered, not wanting the children to hear.

"What is it, _mon amour_?"

"You know Lucy is with child again?"

He stopped. The children stopped and looked quizzically up at them. Charles ushered them to walk with their grandparents. Then he gazed at his wife and frowned.

"Is this something women always discuss? Edward told me this morning, before the presentation. Their third child."

"And _Charles..."_

Charles studied his wife for a full minute. He glanced once at Lucy with their kids. Lucy winked at him. Edward winked. Althea nodded knowingly. He gazed at Katrine again. How did he miss the fullness in Katrine's cheeks? How did he miss the awesome Madonna-like bearing of his wife? How? He gave a sob, tried hard not to weep right there on the sidewalk. His throat worked and his mouth moved but he struggled to utter a single word. At last he found his voice.

"K-Katrine...?" he stammered.

Katrine's eyes filled with tears.

" _Oui, Charles… c'est vrai_."

"Happy?" he asked softly, planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Supremely, General!"

THE END

 _Consuesse enim deos immortales, quo gravius homines ex commutatione rerum doleant, quos pro scelere eorum ulcisci velint, his secundiores interdum res et diuturniorem impunitatem concedere._

The immortal gods are wont to allow those persons whom they wish to punish for their guilt sometimes a greater prosperity and longer impunity, in order that they may suffer the more severely from a reverse of circumstances.

From - _Caesar's Gallic Wars_.

THE END


	23. Chapter 23

EPILOGUE

 **MüNCHEN, GERMANY August 1946**

Daisy Ginsberg was travelling from Paris to Germany, an overnight trip by train. She was glad that the almost twelve hour journey afforded her time to think of all that had happened to her in the last year.

It was so different now on the train. The year they'd been taken to the concentration camp, the cattle cars had been overloaded with humans. Some of the older men had died while still on their feet, then were unceremoniously dumped out of the train wherever it stopped, before loading more passengers to be crushed together in the cars. They had stood for hours, unable to move, unable to breathe. The stench had overtaken all their senses but although later they had not been aware of it anymore.

Now she travelled in near luxury, seated in a cabin with a padded bunk. She sat back and thought of the child. She still missed Célestine. It had become easier to think of her as Célestine and not Zannah anymore.

She'd written Helmut to tell him that she'd read in an American newspaper sold in Paris, that Charles Miller was now a brigadier general and that he'd been awarded America's highest award for bravery. Célestine had performed for President Truman on that day.

Helmut had been happy. She had written Brigadier General Miller once and he'd replied that Célestine had been formally adopted by him. Célestine had also been accepted into the Juilliard School of Music where she would be continuing her education. She treasured the Tononi that Helmut had given to her. He was going to be overjoyed by the news. In her handbag, she carried letters from both Célestine and her father.

They had treated her with love and respect. While she had been accepted by her former school as a teacher of Mathematics, she only scraped together the courage months after returning to Paris to visit the Millers at their Paris home. Célestine had been overjoyed to see her. Daisy had been in tears when they accompanied her to the Paris cemetery where Joseph Blumenthal and Zannah Ginsberg lay buried. They'd bought flowers outside the cemetery gates and later, she had remained alone by the grave.

The Millers had had a new headstone made that now included Zannah's name, engraved in Roman lettering. Daisy had wept a long time. When she'd dried her tears, she'd taken the flowers tied in a posy with a simple ribbon and placed it on the grave.

" _Repose en paix, douce petite fille. Que les anges chantent avec toi au paradis_ _…_."

Sometimes, just sometimes, she'd been glad Zannah had died instantly and was never subjected to the brutality of physical and sexual abuse in the camp. Zannah was spared that and it had taken all her ingenuity to save another child from those practices. Until the Millers had left for America, she had lived with friends in the city. She could visit Célestine and Célestine could visit her. Then she moved into the Millers' home in _Rue Lion_ when they emigrated to the United States.

Sighing, Daisy sat back and thought about the goodness of the Millers whose house she could occupy for as long as she wanted, free of charge. "Besides," they told her, "we need someone to take care of our home. She had been overjoyed, for she'd lost her home, discovering it was occupied by complete strangers when she returned from Buchenwald. All she could turn to were her friends and the Millers. She owed them a lot. Helmut would have received a stiffer sentence if it weren't for Major General Miller and Célestine's testimony.

The train pulled slowly into Munich Station, which surprised her since she had hardly been aware she'd reached her destination. Her heart pounded as she got off the train. Everything was strange to her here. She could barely understand the German instructions, but the atmosphere was one of quiet yet urgent activity. She made her way to a taxi rank where she spoke to the first taxi driver in German and gave him the destination. He gave her a studied look, then nodded, appearing to shelve the question that seemed to lurk in his eyes. He appeared friendly, though. He drove for about fifteen minutes through winding roads until they reached the outskirts of Munich. There the vehicle stopped in front of a large building with giant double gates.

"Here we are. A fine day to visit a jail, Madame," the German said. "Do you wish me to wait?"

Daisy stared at the driver, her thoughts straying momentarily to a year ago when the situation between German and French had been so different, relations strained. She had feared every German except perhaps Helmut. She'd thought then that those breaches could never be healed again after so much hurt had been inflicted. Then she had looked upon them as the enemy. Things were different now, with Germany occupied by the Allies. Except for the destroyed buildings they'd passed, it was as if there had not been a war. She was not accustomed to their friendliness.

"Yes, please. We are returning to the station," she replied in German.

"Good. Good. I shall wait here. Not to worry, Madame."

"Thank you," she said, smiling a little because he appeared so friendly. She was perplexed, for had there not been a war a year ago when German and French towns and cities were laid waste? When Germans treated everyone not Aryan as inferior? When thousands were murdered in the name of the Reich? She looked at the driver and repeated her "Thank you."

Daisy walked to within ten metres of the big gate. Helmut had written to tell her where to wait. She had not been able to visit him but wrote him a letter almost every week and she had treasured all the letters he had written her. She didn't have to wait long. The great gates creaked heavily as two guards pushed them open.

Helmut stood there, a little ruck sack slung over his shoulder, afraid to move. Her heart ached for him. His face looked gaunt although the light of recognition sprang into his eyes when he saw her. He had always been lean of build but his clothes hung like sacks on his body. And oh, how she had missed his beloved face!

She couldn't move or even smile because it was such a momentous occasion. She had waited patiently for a year to see him again. Now it was approaching summer once more and her ankle length dress swayed gently against her calves. Helmut began walking slowly towards her. His hair had grown long and his eyes, once so crystal clear blue, now appeared darker, although they gleamed as they rested on her. She knew he had suffered in jail. Like the camps, there were few rules in prison. She had no doubt that a year was enough to have inflicted serious emotional damage on him. When he stopped in front of her, she raised her hand to caress his cheek with trembling fingers.

"Helmut..."

She stepped into his embrace, and despite his thin, sick frame, he held her tightly before he murmured into her hair, "Liebling..."

The taxi driver observed them from his taxi. It was very clear to him that the couple were deeply devoted just by the way the former prisoner held her so tightly. Once he had dreamed he could hold his wife like that, but she had died along with their two little boys during the bombing raids on Dresden. What was he but a simple foot soldier of a leader who let the world rain bombs on the innocent, wherever they were in the world?

Now, looking at a Frenchwoman who had travelled all the way from Paris, he presumed, holding her beloved like she would never want to let him go brought tears to his eyes. He had loved his wife and sons. He was a plain man, a gardener by trade, who had worked on a large estate. In the end der Führer had called up even the simple labourers like him to defend a crumbling Reich. He sighed heavily, his heart a little sore. Perhaps one day he might meet another fine young woman and have children by her so that he could live a life complete with a family again.

Only when the couple reached him did he realise he knew the former prisoner.

"Baron Freiherr von Wangenheim?"

The German frowned, then said quietly as recognition dawned, "Rudolph Steiner..."

"I worked on your estate in Munziger, Baron, before the war. It is an honour to meet you."

"Thank you, Steiner. You drive a taxi now?"

"Ja. It is good work, Herr von Wangenheim."

Helmut nodded, his hand on Daisy's elbow as he let her climb in the taxi before he seated himself next to her.

"Back to the station, Herr von Wangenheim?"

"Yes. Your wife and children, Rudolph?"

"They died during the Dresden bombings, Herr von Wangenheim."

"I am sorry to hear that," Helmut said.

Although they conversed rapidly in German, Daisy understood them. Steiner sounded like a genuinely friendly, good kind of person, she thought. Everyone had lost someone during the war. Very few remained untouched.

As they drove away from the prison to the station, Helmut turned to face Daisy. She gripped his hand tightly.

"We leave for Paris on the night train," Helmut told Steiner.

Steiner nodded, driving the vehicle expertly through the town to the station.

Helmut and Daisy sat quietly in the back. They'd made all their arrangements. First to the Millers' home in Paris where they would spend some time, then would take him to the cemetery before showing him around the city. They would get married in Paris, then depart for Munziger. He wanted to tie up all his affairs before leaving Europe for good.

 **PARIS – 28 July 1956**

The velodrome of the Parc du Princes teemed with spectators. In the main stand facing the finishing line sat a group anxiously waiting for the riders to enter the stadium from the opposite end and ride the long curve of 330 yards until they crossed the finish.

Twelve year old Charles Bertrand Beaumont fidgeted next to his mother. On her right sat eight year old Katrine Beaumont who seemed too serene for Charles's liking. She could be a little spitfire at one moment and the next be an angel at peace with the world. He'd heard his parents complain that she was far too quiet to be a Beaumont, because Beaumonts were a noisy bunch all the time. They'd even thought at one point that Katrine was sick, but the way she ate her food was enough evidence that she was healthy. Sometimes he hated that she never got mad at him for teasing her. He always thought she was afraid to get angry. Once, when they'd ridden out in the country on their bikes, he yelled that there was an obstacle in front of her. She'd swerved hard then landed in a thorny ditch. He'd spent that evening without supper and nursing a very sore behind because Papa had no patience with admonishment by talking. Papa had taken his old leather belt and walloped him really hard. Charles had sworn then that he would never help Katrine into a ditch again.

So how was he to know that Katrine had a talent for being sneaky? It seemed to him that she developed her cunning right after her thorny landing. A few days later, he'd landed in a ditch and then Maman simply told him to remove his own thorns before both children were sent to bed without supper. Katrine had whined all evening because she missed her favourite dish that Maman cooked that night. All was forgotten and he'd hugged his little sister tightly and told her they were a team.

"Will you sit still, Charles?"

"I'm trying, Maman. The riders will arrive within the next ten minutes. I've worked out that Papa need only finish in the top five riders of the final stage. He is still ahead on points."

Brigitte Beaumont glanced at her son. She had loved him since the day he was born. Another man had fathered him but Bertrand was the father Charles loved. He'd been told very early on that Bertrand was not his real father, that his real father was a German soldier who had died during the liberation of St. Clair. Charles had given them both a long look, frowned heavily, then shrugged. She and Bertrand had had their hearts in their months that day for fear that Charles would be angry for the rest of his life. But their son was a champion. In physical appearance there was little of Welthagen in Charles. He looked mostly like both Brigitte and Berry. Charles had a lust for life that excluded morbid thoughts about "real father' or "birth father".

Only recently, before the Tour started, Charles had spoken about his heritage, the first time since he was about six years old. He didn't want to know anything about being German or having German blood. That day he'd told them with the heaviest frown he could muster that he was a Beaumont and that they should never forget that.

"I have a perfect family. Papa is my father. I have more love in my home than some of my school friends. You will always be my mother and father and Katrine my sister even though she irritates me."

They'd all given a collective sigh and life went on.

"Yes, you told me, Charles. Papa is ahead on points. He'll be wearing the yellow jersey, not so?"

"You know that, Maman!"

"Katrine doesn't. Do you Katrine?"

"I do not like yellow jerseys, " responded Katrine.

Brigitte gave Charles a warning look that said, "Don't you dare laugh at her." She loved her children and Berry loved them perhaps even more. He'd been completely bowled over by the tiny infant that was Charles Bertrand Beaumont, had declared that he'd loved his son even when he was still in his mother's womb. Today Brigitte still could not believe her good fortune, still could not comprehend completely why she'd rejected Berry who was always there, always so protective, always openly loving her. Yes, she sighed inwardly, she had been a fool, but regrets couldn't be turned into blessings. They came because of her regrets. She'd much rather count her blessings than dwell on things that could serve absolutely no purpose to her future happiness.

Berry was a good man, a good husband, a better friend. She could not have asked for more. Once, in the distant past she had loved Robert Davis. They had been so young then in a world in which the ominous signs of war rumbled. They had both been enriched for their experiences, for life had a way of showing them different paths. She was happy now and she was certain Robert was happy too.

Suddenly there was a noise at the opposite end of the stadium. They were coming in, the riders from many different countries.

"Maman! Look! A yellow jersey is in front!" shouted Charles who'd dropped his notebook and pen and rose to stand on the seat. He began yelling and jumping. It seemed the spectators followed his example and stood up, applauding, for right there, leading the riders in was Bertrand Beaumont in the yellow jersey.

Brigitte looked at the peloton entering the straight with Berry in front. At forty years of age, Berry was one of the oldest riders. He had led from the start when he won the 139 mile stage 1 from Reims to Liège. Thereafter he'd worn the yellow jersey throughout, winning Stage 5, 9, 14 and 21. Berry had always declared he'd win the Tour de France one day.

When the riders streaked past the finish to tumultuous applause and noise, began screaming in earnest. After glancing at her brother, who was echoing his mother's shouts of encouragement, Katrine joined in just as loudly.

Berry pumped the air as he sped past the finish. Brigitte shouted and wept. She didn't care who was watching or whether the children would tease her for shedding tears. It was her Berry winning the Tour de France just like he'd always said he would.

His third consecutive win.

"It's my last race, Brigitte. Charles is very good on a bike. It's time I trained him."

Those were his words just before the Tour started and they'd lain in bed talking long after midnight. He had wanted to focus on their business, building racing cycles. Because the business was growing, they'd had to relocate to Paris four years ago. Solange and Lamine had remained in St. Clair running the very lucrative Coeur de Lion.

"Hey!"

She hadn't realised that Berry was leaning against the railing.

"Papa!" the children cried. "You won! Congratulations!"

Berry smiled at his children but had eyes only for Brigitte whom he had loved since she wore pig tails and ankle socks. She still managed to make his heart race so that he found breathing difficult. But she was his Brigitte forever. Brigitte who smiled at him with tears in her eyes, who had lost none of her sparkle. She would be ninety and still sparkle.

Forgetting everyone around them momentarily, then he pulled Brigitte against him and kissed her passionately. The podium and awards and trophies could wait. Katrine and Charles could wait. They were children. Their time would come one day. But right now, his Brigitte was kissing him, her arms rightly around his neck.

When at last they broke the kiss, he gazed into her eyes. He was a winner long before the Tour!

"I love you, Brigitte Beaumont!"

 **NEW YORK – Carnegie Hall – August 1956**

The members of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra tuned their instruments, bows skimming the strings of a cello, a flautist blowing a note in D major. They were sounds she had come to love for they filled her with excitement, a thrill that she was a part of it. As a young girl, she had dreamed of performing in the Carnegie Hall.

Through a narrow opening in the curtains covering the stage entrance, Célestine Miller's eyes swept over the first rows of the auditorium. It was the first row that caused her to catch her breath, her heart giving a familiar lurch. General Charles Miller sat next to her mother, Katrine. As always, her dad was in full dress uniform, cutting a resplendent, imposing figure. It always delighted her when he entered the foyer of a concert hall because he was such a presence.

The first time she had seen him, he was also in uniform. She had been a frightened child in a concentration camp and he the one who had come to liberate them all. She remembered that day very clearly when he'd told her, "Your name is Célestine…". That day her courage had broken through her fear when she'd thrown herself in his arms even before he spoke about her mother, even before he'd said that he'd married her mother.

She had vague memories of her own father, Joseph Blumenthal. Over the years, whenever they visited France, she made the little pilgrimage to the cemetery where he was buried with Zannah Ginsberg, the little girl who had died in her place. Célestine had loved her natural father, but life, she'd decided long ago, was made for the living, those who had passed on becoming fond memories. Her world was peopled by her parents, her brother Evan and her little sister Katya, her extended family.

Célestine gazed at her father, her heart filling with immense pride.

General Charles Anson Miller. War hero. Husband and father.

To this day she was still not sure why she'd reacted like she had that day when she hurled herself into his embrace, hugging him with her thin arms. He'd felt strong, unbreakable, invincible, a man she sensed intuitively she could trust. They connected as a team, father and daughter, a father who was present most times for her recitals, achievements and presentations. Yet he never let Evan and Katya feel excluded. Evan was fast making a name as a young cellist, an instrument he loved although he was bound for West Point once he graduated from high school. They all flourished because their parents supported them in all their endeavours.

Katrine Miller looked even more beautiful now. Her mother's hand was held in her father's. Célestine couldn't imagine a time when she hadn't seen them hold hands like that. She loved hearing stories about how they met, how they fell in love, how they married in Paris after just looking at a pair of rings in a store window. Katrine, they all knew by now, hadn't liked Charles Miller in the beginning because, according to her, he was so bossy.

She was glad they they were all here. They were her people, her fiercest supporters – all of them, from her mother and father to Pa Isaac and Ma Althea, the two boys and Charlotte and Katya. She loved them all.

This was her big concert with a major orchestra, one of the greatest orchestras in the world, under the direction of one of the greatest conductors. It was the start of her professional career after she'd completed her education in music. She had studied under the greatest tutors in America and had already made a radio recording for CBS radio. Giving a deep sigh, she dropped the curtain back.

Her instrument was tuned, her fingers holding the bow with a very light tremble. It was time… The concertmaster had walked onto the stage and taken a bow before a final tuning of his instrument after which he sat down.

"Ready?" Maestro Leonard Bernstein asked.

She looked up at him and smiled.

"As I'll ever be!"

 _ **nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn**_

General Charles Anson Miller sat in the front row and next to him was his wife, Katrine Miller, her hand clasped in his. On Katrine's side sat nine year old Katya and next to Charles sat fifteen year old Evan, a strapping young teen who already was almost as tall as his father.

Charles looked around, craning his neck to gaze at the rest of the family who had come to watch Célestine in her first performance in the Carnegie Hall. They sat two rows behind them. Sixteen year old little Charlie – lately he'd taken offence at the "little" since he was six feet tall – sat next to Edward. Both Charlie and Evan were headed for West Point when they graduated from high school, even though Evan was so proficient playing the cello. There was not a prouder father than Edward who had always dreamed of being in the armed forces. Lucy's hand was held firmly in her husband's. They too had a nine year old daughter, Charlotte, born on the same day as Katya. Winonah, who was fourteen years old, also played the violin. Katya and Charlotte wanted to row on the river at Poughkeepsie whenever Charles senior headed for the water course there.

Edward smiled as he gave Charles a thumbs up sign. The orchestra members had already taken their seats.

A hush fell in the concert hall. The concertmaster entered the stage from the left, turned to face the audience and bowed. Then he tuned his violin, followed by the orchestra who did the same. There was no applause during this short time as the concertmaster seated himself in the first violinist's position on the stage.

"When is she coming, Dad?" Evan whispered next to him.

"Soon."

"Can't wait. She said tonight is just for us, but look at all the people here! It's a full house!"

"I know, son. She is gifted and so are you. It's her official introduction to the world. They are discovering her now, okay?"

"I hope she smiles at you again, Dad, like she does every time!"

Charles's heart warmed at his son's words. Célestine had done many concerts, but those were in small venues and mostly with chamber orchestras. He and Katrine attended Célestine's concerts as their own busy schedules allowed. Tonight was too important not to stay away. Charlie knew the press was represented here. The family was hoping that one of the classical music labels would offer Célestine a recording contract.

Evan was right. Célestine always reserved a special smile for him, ever since that very first day eleven years ago in Buchenwald Concentration Camp. He had loved her instantly and would do anything to protect her and Katrine. Now, Evan and Katya were part of that circle.

A sudden stirring among the audience alerted him to the present again, his eyes now riveted to the left side entrance. Then, the applause as Célestine and Leonard Bernstein entered the stage. Bernstein shook the hand of the concertmaster before he turned to face the audience and both conductor and soloist bowed.

There was an audible gasp from the audience as Célestine walked to her position in a flowing peach coloured chiffon gown that draped to her ankles in a multitude of folds. The bodice of the dress, caught at the waist by a long sash, was adorned with Swarovski rhinestones that glittered continuously with the tiniest of movements. Charles recalled how mother and daughter agonised over colours, tones, fabrics, crystals. Katrine had been adamant that the V-line bodice be held up with thin straps caught at the back cross-ways. "How would it look if you moved about too much and the bodice dropped off your bosom?" Which had both women and Katya, only nine years old, almost on the floor laughing their heads off. In the end, common sense prevailed. Célestine had also insisted on a sleeveless dress, especially in summer. "I am not ashamed of having spent years in a concentration camp, _Maman_." Even today Célestine still used the French inflective, something her brother and younger sister also followed. They all spoke French fluently which both he and Katrine had encouraged in their children.

Célestine caught his eye and smiled. A warmth spread through him as he acknowledged his daughter whom he had raised from her tenth year. She was self-assured with a discipline honed through years of study at the Juilliard School of Music, followed by a Masters degree in music. She always acknowledged him as the primary inspiration for every achievement in her life. Katrine had overcome the early resentment she felt when Célestine connected so naturally to him, always ending with, "She takes after me!" Which was the truth which Charles had realised even when he'd just met Célestine at Buchenwald where she displayed the same little quirks as her mother. Sometimes he had a hard time breaking through a double wall of stubbornness which trebled as soon as Katya joined in the fray.

He glanced at Katrine whose eyes misted over as she gazed at Célestine. Katrine gripped his hand tighter. He knew it was her 'thank you' for the family life he had given them.

Katrine didn't have to look down at the programme when Bernstein launched the New York Philharmonic into the first bars of Tchaikovsky's Concerto for Violin. She knew the moment Célestine was going to balance the Tononi between her chin and neck to wait for the counterpoint, after the opening bars of the orchestra. The tattooed number was visible, something Célestine had never bothered to hide. She fielded questions from the press well, was gracious in her responses and never lost her cool. After a while, they simply focused on her near genius ability with the violin.

There was absolute quiet in the auditorium as Célestine Miller stroked the violin into the first soft strains of the concerto, her eyes closing as the music filled her soul, her face animated with emotion. She swayed gently to the rhythm of the music. At times the melody was achingly beautiful in its pianissimo passages, then just as suddenly came the firm, rousing surges in the second movement as the music became forceful, rising into crescendos that had the audience gaping.

This was Célestine Miller, saved from Buchenwald to share her gift with the world. She was never meant to die there. Katrine thanked God that it was Charles who found her, that had Charles gone to any other camp, he might never have discovered her. Had Daisy and Helmut not… Sighing, Katrine kept her eyes on her daughter, so self-assured, so beautiful and accomplished. This was Célestine who had the audience at her feet. This was where Célestine was meant to be. A sudden flash in which Katrine saw Joseph's face, looking directly at her, then at Célestine. Katrine imagined Joseph saying, "See? I knew our Célestine had a gift God gave her."

 _Thank you, Joseph, for Célestine…_

Then the image disappeared and Katrine glanced at her husband, not surprised to see his eyes glistening with tears. Katya couldn't stop smiling as she gazed with rapture at her big sister. No one dared to cough to spoil a moment or a single line of notes lest it disturbed the wonder of a young almost twenty one year old violinist drawing every emotion imaginable from the strings of the violin.

She was always destined for greatness, Katrine thought. And almost, almost, the world had lost a prodigy who would set the world alight with her passion for music. Katrine played without the benefit of accompanying sheet music for she had committed the Tchaikovsky Concerto to memory. Once Leonard Bernstein turned to face her and he smiled as she caressed the instrument, creating perfect harmony with the orchestra.

It was a triumph as the last notes of the concerto died quietly. A pause before deafening applause broke out in the auditorium and Célestine curtsied before shaking the hand of the concertmaster. Bernstein stepped off the rostrum and kissed the back of Célestine's hand. The audience was on its feet, still applauding.

Then Célestine left the stage only to re-enter seconds later, curtsying again.

Charles, now a two star general, stepped close to the stage to take his daughter's hand and kiss it.

"Thank you, Daddy," she mouthed before leaving again.

Then Leonard Bernstein took to the podium again, facing the audience. As he raised his hand, they sat down, waiting for an announcement. It seemed they were not ready to leave.

"I was asked by our guest if she might play something for her father, General Charles Miller."

Charles looked at Katrine, frowning. Katrine simply smiled and held his hand. Katya said, "She is playing for you, Daddy!" Her voice was filled with great awe.

Next to Charles, Evan gave a knowing smirk. "Don't look at me! It wasn't my idea."

Bernstein's voice intruded. "She told me it is of special importance to her." Bernstein waved his hand, indicating that Charles stand.

Célestine entered the stage again, nodding to the conductor.

General Charles Miller had absolutely no idea what Célestine had planned with the conductor and orchestra. She took a few seconds to tune her instrument again. When she launched into the beautiful notes of the Mozart Wiegenlied, Charles experienced a breathlessness at the memories the lullaby evoked.

Célestine played it for the sick, the troubled, for him whenever he had nightmares. It was the only music, from the hands of his beloved daughter, that could still the savage images in his heart and memory. Katrine and Célestine… The young child who captured his heart just like her mother had so many years ago, now grown into womanhood, playing for him. She always made him feel special. But, he acknowledged, the world was waiting to meet its newest star.

When she finished, Charles saluted.

"I love you, Daddy."

Charles nodded, watching as she left the stage. Katrine, Katya and Evan would meet her in the dressing room later.

As people began exiting Carnegie Hall, none of the Miller family noticed a couple who remained in their seats in the back of the hall. Helmut von Wangenheim and his wife Daisy had tears in their eyes at the wonder of what they had witnessed tonight.

"She is beautiful, Helmut."

"She is indeed, my love. A beautiful young woman. She was never meant to die in Buchenwald."

END...really.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Please do permit me the following things.

I would like to offer a quote here:

"I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this Book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it, is so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided between pleasure and regret - pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions - that I am in danger of wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences, and private emotions.

Besides which, all that I could say of the Story, to any purpose, I have endeavoured to say in it.

It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years' imaginative task; or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. Yet, I have nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still) that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I have believed it in the writing.

Charles Dickens - Preface on his novel **David Copperfield - 1850**

There was nothing that satisfied me more than the writing of the book during the past year. From the Introduction readers have learnt that a lot of work had gone into the research. I have lived with the characters for a long, long time. Building their backstories gave them a dimension and life I had underestimated, I suppose. Like Dickens, I felt the pleasure in creating the characters that peopled the story - good characters and bad, and the regret that however much I loved them, I have to let them go, but not forever!

I realised the importance of a "wholesome" story, as my husband called it, i.e. an outline and "story board" fixed at the very beginning. That became my basis for writing "A thousand years of Darkness". And, as the Muse often confounded writers, many elements were entered that were not part of the original outline. Daisy Ginsberg, for instance became an important [original] character whom I had not written into my original notes. I figured if I wanted Célestine to survive Buchenwald, what better chance than a woman who would take upon herself that burden!

DID YOU KNOW?

a) Lieutenant Robert Davis was supposed to die on the battlefield. I never really wanted to pair him with Brigitte as I thought that after eight years they would have moved on with their lives. In that respect I veered away from the Killing Game idea that there could have been more. Besides, Berry [Bertrand] Beaumont became far more interesting!

b) Célestine was supposed to die in the camp.

c) Helmut von Wangenheim was supposed to man the roadblock just outside St. Clair and killed when Miller and his company wreaked havoc there. Instead, I put him inside Buchenwald.

d) I had a "Neelix" character penned in my original notes and discarded the idea when Helmut's character began to shape more three-dimensionally.

e) I drew a map/plan for the main part of the town of St. Clair so that I could have an idea of where exactly I was and my characters were. There was also a map for the Languedoc Wine Estate with its hidden bunkers.

f) I had never actually thought of doing anything with Lucien Blériot [Katrine's ex] until I had Lamine kill him off.

VH


End file.
